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Three  Vveeks  in  France 


The  Three  Weeks  Abroad  Series 

By 

John  U.  Higinbotham 
Four  Titles: 
Three  Weeks  in  Europe 
Three  Weeks  in  Holland  and  Belgium 
Three  Weeks  in  the  British  Isles 
Three  Weeks  in  France 

Most  Delightful  Travel  Books 

The  Three  Weeks  Abroad  Series  are  not  "guides"  but 
invaluable  to  those  about  to  make  a  first  trip  to  Europe. 
Full  of  just  the  necessary  information  and  pertinent 
suggestions  —  all  presented  in  the  form  of  a  charming 
and  readable  narrative.  Those  who  cannot  go  abroad 
will  find  these  books  the  best  sort  of  a  substitute;  as 
entertaining  as  fiction. 

Fifty  or  more  beautiful  half-tone  illustrations,  pic- 
tures chosen  with  rare  good  taste  and  judgment. 
Handsomely  bound  in  cloth  with  cover  design  in  three 
colors.     Large  12mo. 


IN    THE    PYRENEES 


THREE   WEEKS 


IN 


FRANCE 


BY 


JOHN  U.   HIGINBOTHAM 


THE  REILLY  &  BRITTON  CO. 
CHICAGO 


Copyright,  191 S, 

by 
The  Reilly  &  Britton  Co. 


Three  Weeks  in  France 


CONTENTS 


Chapter  Page 

I     Crossing  to  Havre  9 

II    Rouen     25 

III  Chartres    47 

IV  Mont  St.  Michel   57 

V    Vitre   82 

VI    Le  Mans  and  Tours  90 

VII    Chambord  and  Blois    104 

VIII     Pau    119 

IX    Lourdes 144 

X    Gavarnie  and  Luz  150 

XI    Toulouse   168 

XII     Carcassonne    177 

XIII  The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn   183 

XIV  Beziers,   Cette  and  Nimes    202 

XV    Marseilles    226 

XVI     Monte  Carlo   234 

XVII    The  Goulets    247 

XVIII     Chambery    257 

XIX    Annecy    264 

XX      ClIAMONIX     271 

XXI    Lyons    285 

XXII    The  Forest  of   Fountainebleau    291 

XXIII    The  Palace  of  Fountainebleau  305 


?9 


PREFACE 

Emerson  speaks  of  the  gad-fly  of  curiosity 
which  animates  the  traveler.  Sewell  Ford,  equally 
entomological  in  his  etymology,  would  probably 
call  it  a  "bug."  Whatever  the  cause,  the  effect 
is  as  widespread  as  humanity  and  the  manifesta- 
tions are  as  varied  as  the  human  beings  which  it 
animates. 

Some,  endowed  with  health,  energy  and 
imagination,  seek  the  north  pole  and  return 
damaged  in  health  but  with  energy  unimpaired 
and  imagination  working  overtime.  Others  seek 
glory  at  the  lion's  mouth  or  shin  up  mountain 
sides  in  the  proud  hope  that  some  day  a  tomb- 
stone will  be  erected  over  a  few  shreds  of  cloth 
and  three  or  four  buttons  that  once  encased 
their  manly  forms.  At  their  obsequies,  weeping 
friends  are  permitted  to  view  remnants  instead 
of  remains. 

Yet  others  seek  the  gay  life  of  the  Continental 
bathing  beaches  where  the  seashore  is  becoming 
more  and  more  the  see-shore. 

Whatever  form  their  activity  takes,  the  under- 
lying motive  is  afterwards  to  find  an  audience 
and  tell  of  their  adventures.  Few  men  would 
accept  free  transportation  to  the  moon  with  a 


Preface 

guarantee  of  safe  and  comfortable  passage  were 
it  coupled  with  a  ban  of  silence  upon  their  return. 

Julius  Caesar,  the  first  man  to  work  five  I's  into 
a  three  word  telegram,  was  also  the  writer  of 
the  first  successful  travel  book  on  France.  His 
"Three  Years  in  Gaul,"  less  favorably  known  as 
his  "Commentaries,"  has  been  indifferently  trans- 
lated into  more  different  languages  than  any  other 
travel  book  ever  written.  He  laid  the  foundation 
of  the  unpopularity  of  the  travel  book. 

He  had  two  great  advantages  over  most  writ- 
ers. He  was  a  pioneer  and  an  emperor.  None 
of  his  contemporaries  had  been  over  the  ground 
covered  by  him  and  if  they  had,  they  would  not 
have  dared  to  question  his  statements.  The  man 
who  writes  of  his  travels  to-day  addresses  an 
audience  which  by  means  of  moving  pictures, 
travel  lectures  and  books  has  visited  most  of 
the  world  and  stands  pencil  in  hand  ready  to  cor- 
rect any  errors. 

I  am  growing  prolegomenous.  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  I  would,  in  order  that  I  might  use  that 
word. 

France  is  the  most  visited  and  least  seen  of 
any  country  on  the  globe.  Notwithstanding  the 
many  excellent  books  on  the  subject  and  the 
armies  of  pleasure  seekers  who  land  at  French 
seaports  every  summer,  the  American  who  does 
not  take  the  Paris  Express  finds  himself  alone 


Preface 

at  the  landing  dock  and  treads  his  delighted  way- 
through  the  departments  of  France  seeing  very- 
few  compatriots. 

So  long  as  this  sin  of  omission  prevails,  pun- 
ishment in  the  form  of  travel  books  is  richly- 
merited. 

John  U.  Higinbotham. 

Chicago,  January,  19 13. 


Three    Weeks    in    France 


II 


I 

Crossing  to  Havre 

N  order  to  be  as  French  as  possible  and  to 
be  French  as  soon  as  possible,  we  chose 
the  French  Line  for  our  crossing. 
But  a  kindly  Providence  had  arranged 
that  our  foretaste  of  France  should  antedate  even 
a  whiff  of  the  ocean,  for  the  manager  of  our  din- 
ing car  was  a  Frenchman  of  Rouen  whose  friend- 
ship was  immediately  gained  when  he  found  that 
we  planned  to  visit  his  native  city.  He  told  us 
much  that  interested  us,  not  only  regarding 
Rouen,  but  of  other  parts  of  France.  Herein 
does  the  Frenchman  differ  from,  let  us  say,  the 
Irishman.  The  Frenchman  loves  his  home-town, 
but  has  a  greater  affection  for  his  country.  This 
enables  him  to  see  the  beauties  of  other  parts  of 
France. 

Nor  was  our  experience  on  the  railway  limited 
to  the  dining  car  man.  B.  with  an  ear  attuned 
to  catch  the  faintest  hint  of  Gallic  accent  picked 
out  a  neatly  dressed  gentleman  whose  intonation 
betrayed  his  origin,  and  insisted  that  I  scrape  an 

9 


io  Three  Weeks  in  France 

acquaintance  with  him  and  bring  him  to  our  lair 
in  the  sleeping  car  for  conversational  purposes. 
The  first  part  of  the  assignment  was  easily 
accomplished.  Yes,  he  was  a  Frenchman,  a  phy- 
sician. He  was  returning  to  France  this  week. 
He  did  not  know  on  what  boat,  but  on  one  that 
sailed  as  soon  as  possible.  Could  he  not  change 
to  our  boat?  He  was  uncertain.  He  gladly 
accepted  my  invitation  to  call  on  us  in  our  state- 
room on  the  train.  After  waiting  for  half  an 
hour  after  breakfast,  unable  longer  to  curb  B's 
impatience,  I  went  into  the  car  and  reminded  the 
doctor  of  his  engagement.  He  was  in  conversa- 
tion with  a  Canadian,  a  sort  of  official  looking 
chap,  but  said  he  would  be  in  very  shortly.  I 
went  back  and  presently  the  Canadian  put  his 
head  inside  the  door  and  said,  "Pardon  me,  but 
the  doctor  is  rather  sensitive  on  the  subject,  and 
I  thought  I  had  better  explain  that  he  is  being 
deported  to  France,  and  you  probably  would  not 
care  to  prolong  the  acquaintance,  in  view  of  that 
fact." 

We  did  not  inquire  of  what  crime  or  disease 
the  doctor  was  suspected,  but  excused  him  from 
his  engagement.  That  ended  our  efforts  to  antic- 
ipate our  actual  embarkment  for  French  con- 
versational purposes. 

We  rested  briefly  at  New  Rochelle  before  tak- 
ing the  boat  and  recalled  that  this  old  New  York 


Crossinsf  to  Havre  n 


*& 


town  was  born  of  the  travail  following  the  Revo- 
cation of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  in  1685.  Later  we 
were  reminded  of  our  great  debt  to  France  as 
our  taxi  whizzed  past  Union  Square  in  New 
York  City,  and  we  touched  our  hats  to  the  statue 
of  "Lafayette  Arriving  in  America,"  presented 
by  the  French  to  the  municipality  in  grateful 
recognition  of  her  sympathy  during  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  a  loving  thought  most  gracefully 
expressed.  While  Louis  XVI  was  actuated  by 
hatred  of  England  and  spent  $240,000,000  in 
assisting  us  to  gain  our  independence,  Lafay- 
ette was  moved  by  the  love  of  liberty,  and  not 
only  fitted  out  a  vessel  at  his  own  expense  but 
spent  seven  years  in  our  wildernesses  fighting 
for  us  at  an  age  when  there  must  have  been 
much  to  draw  him  back  to  the  gay  life  of  the 
court.  Lafayette  was  a  man  in  the  early  twen- 
ties when  he  came  to  us,  but  in  spite  of  his 
youth,  his  counsel  was  highly  prized  by  that  wise 
leader,  Washington. 

Gilbert  Motier,  Marquis  de  Lafayette,  was  a 
consistent  friend  of  liberty.  After  his  return 
to  France  he  advocated  civil  rights  for  Jews  and 
Protestants.  As  the  French  Revolution  pro- 
gressed the  madmen  of  the  Convention  saw  in  his 
sanity  only  disloyalty,  and  his  popularity  de- 
clined. Following  the  unsuccessful  flight  to 
Varennes  of  Louis  XVI  and  family,  Lafayette 


12  Three  Weeks  in  France 

attempted  to  escape  into  Holland.  He  was  ar- 
rested on  the  Luxembourg  frontier  and  was  sent 
a  prisoner  to  Prussia.  He  was  confined  in  a 
dungeon  at  Magdeburg  for  a  year  and  sent 
thence  to  Olmutz  in  Moravia.  In  1795,  assisted 
by  Dr.  Erick  Ballman  and  Francis  Key  Huger, 
he  attempted  to  escape  but  failed.  During  all  of 
this  time  nothing  was  done  for  him,  and  little  at- 
tempted by  the  United  States.  Later  it  would 
load  him  with  honors  and  Florida  land,  but  dur- 
ing his  captivity,  Congress  sat  with  folded  hands. 

Finally  Napoleon  exchanged  Marie  Therese 
for  Lafayette  and  his  wife.  After  Waterloo,  it 
was  his  fate  to  be  one  of  those  who  called  on 
Napoleon  to  abdicate  but  he  was  opposed  to  sur- 
rendering the  Emperor  to  the  Allies.  After  the 
Restoration  Lafayette  lived  at  La  Grange.  He 
visited  the  United  States  in  1824  and  received  a 
continuous  ovation.  Many  hands  were  blistered 
in  rapturous  applause  that  had  not  been  raised 
to  assist  him  at  Olmutz.  In  1825  he  came  to 
Boston  to  attend  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the 
Battle  of  Bunker  Hill.  It  was  then  that  Con- 
gress voted  him  two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
and  two  hundred  thousand  acres  of  land  which 
he  selected  in  Florida. 

In  1830  he  refused  the  crown  of  Belgium. 
One  pauses  to  wonder  what  the  effect  would  have 
been  on  Belgium  in  general,  and  Ostend  in  par- 


Crossing  to  Havre  13 

ticular,  had  the  Belgian  dynasty  been  founded  by 
Lafayette  instead  of  Leopold  of  Saxe-Coburg. 

Lafayette  died  in  1834  at  the  ripe  age  of 
seventy-seven  years,  having  lived  long  enough 
to  see  most  of  his  ideas  ripen  into  full  fruitage 
on  the  new  soil  of  America,  but  not  long  enough 
to  see  some  of  them  rot  and  drop  off  the  bough. 
Happy  man! 

The  key  to  the  Bastille  in  Paris  which  was 
given  to  Lafayette  was  in  turn  presented  by 
him  to  George  Washington  and  is  now  one  of 
the  prized  exhibits  at  Mount  Vernon. 

That  is  a  very  long  soliloquy  to  be  started  by 
a  statue  and  in  a  taxicab  with  the  meter  revolving 
as  only  a  New  York  taximeter  can  revolve. 

Finally  we  arrived  at  the  dock  and  settled  with 
the  chauffeur  at  a  rate  which,  according  to 
Augustus  Thomas,  accounts  for  the  morality  of 
the  American  compared  with  the  Frenchman. 
We  have  no  money  with  which  to  support  a 
double  life  after  paying  our  cab  bills. 

There  were  all  the  usual  features  of  parting, 
plus  a  few  that  are  peculiar  to  French  leave- 
takings.  There  was  a  little  of  added  volubility 
and  a  fusillade  of  those  strictly  sanitary  double- 
cheeked  osculations  with  which  the  French  are 
so  liberal.  The  last  package  was  swung  aboard, 
the  last  female  was  pushed  ashore,  the  band 
played  and  we  were  off !    Then  came  the  struggle 


14  Three  Weeks  in  France 

for  places  on  deck  and  at  table.  The  American 
man  was  heard  explaining  to  his  wife  that  "boite 
fermee"  meant  mail-box  and  she  trustingly  put 
her  letters  therein  long  after  the  pilot  had  de- 
parted. 

Slowly  that  other  tie  that  binds  us  to  France, 
Bartholdi's  Statue  of  Liberty,  dwindled  into  a 
very  diminutive  Liberty  waving  a  tiny  torch  at 
the  end  of  a  short  arm;  an  arm  so  short  that  it 
was  hard  to  realize  that  it  was  forty-two  feet 
long,  and  that  if  her  majesty's  four  and  a  half 
foot  nose  set  to  itching  she  would  scratch  it  with 
a  hand  sixteen  feet  in  length ;  or  that  forty  people 
can  stand  in  the  cavity  where  her  brain  should 
be ;  or  that  she  weighs  two  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  tons  and  that  it  is  three  hundred  and  one 
feet  from  the  water  line  to  the  top  of  the  monu- 
ment. The  light  in  her  torch — and  a  whole 
petit  jury  could  stand  in  that  torch  (without 
seeing  a  ray  of  light) — is  maintained  by  the 
lighthouse  service  of  the  United  States.  She 
waves  her  welcoming  beacon  at  an  elevation 
almost  two  hundred  feet  higher  than  the  Colus- 
sus  of  Rhodes  or  the  famous  statue  of  Nero. 

Frederic  Auguste  Bartholdi  was  born  in  Al- 
sace in  1834,  when  Alsace  was  French  and  before 
mourning  wreaths  were  piled  about  the  figure  of 
Strasbourg  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  in  Paris. 
During  the  days  of  the  Commune  he  visited  the 


Crossing  to  Havre  15 

United  States  and  conceived  the  idea  of  placing 
Liberty  far  enough  off-shore  in  New  York  har- 
bor to  be  safe  from  attack.  It  required  five 
years  to  complete  the  work  and  Bartholdi  im- 
poverished himself  in  doing  it.  Not  only  did  he 
conceive  and  externalize  his  grand  idea  but  he 
attended  to  raising  the  popular  subscription 
which  paid  the  cost  thereof  amounting  to 
$600,000. 

We  shall  never  see  Bartholdi's  Statue  of  Lib- 
erty without  recalling  an  anecdote  given  us  in  a 
steamer  letter.  An  American  whose  business  had 
kept  him  six  months  in  Europe  was  approaching 
Bedloe's  Island.  His  experience  had  been  uni- 
formly unfortunate.  He  had  exchanged  bad 
language  for  bad  money  and  had  grown  weary 
of  the  process.  He  hailed  the  statue  in  these 
words :  "You  look  mighty  good  to  me,  old  girl, 
but  if  ever  you  see  me  again,  you  will  have  to 
turn  around." 

Our  trip  across  was  a  disappointment  in  one 
large  respect !  We  had  chosen  this  line  for  gay- 
ety  and  practice  in  French  conversation.  We 
had  neither.  The  French  people  who  made  up 
half  the  passenger  list  either  did  not  mix  with 
the  Americans  or  else  insisted  on  talking  Eng- 
lish. Except  for  the  matter  of  wine  at  meals 
there  was  nothing  hilarious  on  the  boat.  Quite 
the  contrary.      Our  boat,    because  of   the    sea- 


1 6  Three  Weeks  in  France 

man's  strike,  was  inefficiently  manned  by  ma- 
rines and  we  were  a  full  day  late  at  Havre. 

In  our  enthusiasm  at  seeing  land,  we  hailed 
a  New  York  theatrical  man  and  tried  to  drag 
him  to  the  starboard  side  to  look  at  a  lighthouse. 
"Not  on  your  life,"  he  growled,  "I've  seen  noth- 
ing but  light  houses  all  season!" 

Our  French  conversation  was  limited  to  mak- 
ing our  wants  known  to  the  stewards  and  even 
in  this  we  were  the  victims  of  an  uneven  ex- 
change, for  we  had  to  give  two  English  substan- 
tives in  exchange  for  every  French  word  that 
we  received.  The  room  steward  was  struggling 
to  acquire  English  in  order  to  increase  his  value 
to  his  employers  and  his  zeal  was  proportioned 
to  the  incentive.  If  the  same  zeal  had  animated 
the  gentlemen  who  put  into  English  the  menus 
and  the  news  in  our  daily  paper,  The  Journal 
de  l'Atlantique,  the  result  would  have  been  more 
correct,  but  far  less  amusing.  In  their  zeal  to 
make  noun  and  adjective  agree  in  number,  as 
they  must  in  French,  we  had  "straws  berries" 
and  "news  potatoes"  in  the  dining  room  and  re- 
ports of  the  "stocks  markets"  on  deck  by  wire- 
less. 

Our  trip  was  slow  and  eventless.  Warned  by 
the  fate  of  the  Titanic  we  pointed  due  east 
from  New  York  for  five  or  six  days  in  order  to 
be  well  out  of  the  range  of  icebergs.     Gossip 


.SAILORS'    (JAMES 


Crossing  to  Havre  17 

was  well  nigh  exhausted.  The  warm  weather 
due  to  our  southern  course  robbed  the  deck 
sports  of  their  usual  zest.  Only  the  bridge 
fiends  were  oblivious  to  the  high  temperature. 

At  last  we  pointed  north  and  after  having  the 
Glorious  Fourth  celebrated  for  us  with  fireworks 
and  sailors'  games  we  commenced  to  sniff  land. 
We  were  in  the  mouth  of  the  English  channel, 
uncommonly  placid.  The  Scilly  Islands  called 
forth  the  usual  comments.  Almost  every  solu- 
tion of  the  reason  for  their  names  was  suggested 
except  the  most  obvious  one,  viz :  that  they  give 
rise  to  innumerable  silly  puns  on  the  part  of 
passing  travelers. 

Finally  we  turned  into  the  most  beautiful  har- 
bor of  France,  the  bay  of  Havre.  We  had  been 
picked  up  by  our  pilot  the  day  before,  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty-nine  miles  from  land.  The  busi- 
ness is  still  competitive  in  France,  and  under 
the  rules  the  first  licensed  pilot  who  sees  a  boat 
brings  it  into  port. 

The  bay  was  rippling  in  the  bright  morning 
sun.  Dozens  of  steamers  were  lying  at  anchor, 
but  this  alas !  was  no  pleasant  sight,  for  they  bore 
witness  to  the  bitterness  of  the  seamen's  strike. 
From  June  9th  until  July  27th  not  a  big  liner 
left  the  port  of  Havre.  Over  twenty  ships  of 
various  sizes  flying  the  colors  of  our  line  were 
lying  like  helpless  giants  all  about  us. 


1 8  Three  Weeks  in  France 

A  tender  steamed  alongside  us  and  filled  us 
with  an  awful  presentiment.  Were  we  to  be 
landed  by  tender  ?  "No,"  growled  the  New  York 
man,  "They  will  have  to  dock  us  for  being  a 
day  late." 

We  steamed  slowly  past  countless  small  sail- 
boats and  watched  the  shore  line  roll  by  like  an 
impossibly  brilliant  panorama!  A  large  casino, 
a  lighthouse,  a  wireless  station,  strips  of  yellow 
beach  with  borders  of  emerald  grass  fringed  by 
the  greenest  trees  imaginable;  then  pink  and 
white  villas,  surely  never  made  to  be  mussed  up 
by  housekeeping.  Every  one  must  certainly  live 
in  the  big  Hotel  Frascati  and  simply  look  at  his 
villa  and  flick  off  a  speck  of  dust  here  and  there 
with  a  bit  of  chamois  skin. 

Just  how  a  New  Yorker  can  point  with  pride 
to  a  sky  line  that  looks  like  a  broken-toothed 
comb  after  seeing  the  emerald  and  pearl  neck- 
lace that  encircles  the  fair  throat  of  Havre,  is 
unaccountable. 

What  will  our  reception  be  ?  The  dock  is  filled 
with  blue-coated  porters  and  red-legged  gen- 
darmes. A  whole  company  of  soldiers  was 
drawn  up  in  single  file. 

We  descended  to  the  steerage  deck  and  rested 
our  arms  on  a  rail  carved  with  the  names  of  Jan 
Gembes  19 12  and  C.  Petrell,  and  with  quaintly 
designed  Arabic  and  Hebrew  characters  all  now 


Crossing  to  Havre  19 

in  the  big  boiling  pot  of  America  being  worked 
up  into  merchants,  writers,  politicians  and  graft- 
ers, seeking  his  own  and  as  a  rule  rinding  that 
for  which  he  looks. 

About  twenty  women  and  sixty  men  formed 
our  totally  inadequate  reception  committee. 
These  with  the  heartlessness  of  friendship  soon 
detected  and  waved  welcomes  to  the  ones  whom 
they  had  come  to  seek,  leaving  the  rest  of  us 
no  better  occupation  than  to  watch  the  life  on 
the  dock. 

The  three-story  landing  platform  was  wheeled 
along  its  track.  As  usual  a  stump-tailed  dog 
was  the  busiest  animal  in  sight.  He  ran  from 
hawser  to  hawser  to  inspect  the  tying  and  be- 
cause of  his  caudal  affliction  wagged  the  last  one- 
third  of  his  entire  body  in  approval.  He  rested 
for  a  moment  and  tried  to  open  a  battered  tin 
can  with  his  teeth.  He  seemed  fond  of  it.  What 
a  difference  it  makes  when  the  dog  is  attached 
to  the  can.  Perhaps  his  brevity  before  referred 
to  may  account  for  the  careless  glee  with  which 
he  tossed  it  about. 

At  last  we  filed  out  like  Indians,  into  a  big 
room  with  a  counter  on  three  sides  of  it,  past  a 
middle-aged  female  who  put  a  cabalistic  8  on 
our  suit  cases — our  first  introduction  to  the  uni- 
versal business  woman  of  France. 

The  taxicabs  were  all  gone,  so  we  secured  a 


20  Three  Weeks  in  France 

more  prosaic  horse-drawn  vehicle  and  drove  to 
the  railroad  station.  Passengers  booked  to  Paris 
clambered  aboard  the  special  express  awaiting 
them  at  the  docks. 

Our  drive  took  us  past  hundreds  of  pathetic 
appeals  "aux  dockers"  to  assist  in  the  strike  then 
in  progress.  Having  an  hour  or  so  at  our 
disposal  we  dismissed  the  cab,  put  our  suit  cases 
in  the  "Consigne"  room  at  an  expense  of  one 
cent  each  and  trammed  it  up  town. 

Havre  deserves  better  than  it  receives  at  the 
hands  of  tourists.  It  is  a  big  clean  city,  of 
135,000  people.  Its  name  means  "harbor"  and 
travelers  are  willing  to  view  it  solely  in  that 
light.  It  was  founded  by  fishermen,  or  rather 
it  was  deposited  on  the  shore  like  so  much  sedi- 
ment by  the  widening  Seine. 

Prior  to  Francis  I  there  were  two  small  har- 
bors, Honfleur  and  Harfleur.  In  15 17  Admiral 
Chillon  laid  the  first  stone  of  the  present  harbor 
and  city  and  named  the  latter  Franciscopolis. 
But  there  are  some  things  that  cannot  be  changed 
by  royal  decree  and  the  name  of  Havre  or  Havre 
de  Grace  was  one  of  them.  The  "de  Grace" 
referred  to  the  little  chapel  of  Our  Lady  of 
Grace  that  once  stood  there. 

Being  the  port  of  Paris,  Havre  is  an  important 
strategic  point  and  it  has  been  besieged  many 
times  by  English,  Italians  and  others. 


Crossing  to  Havre  21 

In  1629  Havre  was  one  of  three  arsenals 
selected  by  Richelieu,  the  other  two  being  Brest 
and  Brouage.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  dock  yards  were  established  here 
as  well  as  at  Dunkirk  and  Rochefort.  Still  later 
Vauban  had  plans  for  further  improving  Havre 
and  Cherbourg  but  these  were  never  carried  out. 

Our  tram  deposited  us  at  the  Church  of  Notre 
Dame  near  the  very  fine  Museum.  We  avoided 
the  latter  as  requiring  too  much  time,  but  loafed 
about  the  streets  awhile  and  photographed  the 
statue  of  Jacques  Augustin  Normand  of  whom 
we  know  no  more  than  was  told  us  on  the  pedes- 
tal thereof,  viz:  that  he  trod  this  vale  of  tears 
from  1837  until  1906. 

Then  we  visited  the  dark  interior  of  Notre 
Dame.  It  is  a  sixteenth  century  building.  The 
windows  were  new  and  the  stone  floor  was  old. 
Had  these  conditions  been  reversed  we  would 
have  enjoyed  it  more.  The  organ  is  old  and 
interesting.  The  candles  about  the  altar  were 
guttered  into  grotesque  shapes.  Six  or  eight 
old  ladies  were  kneeling  in  prayer  as  we  tiptoed 
out  past  two  massive  brass-bound  shells  filled 
with  holy  water.  A  small  boy  entering,  not  being 
sure  which  shell  to  use,  solved  his  doubts  with 
the  extravagance  of  youth  by  helping  himself 
with  a  liberal  dip  into  each. 

We  walked  back  to  Place   Gambetta  where 


22  Three  Weeks  in  France 

two  statues  show  very  bad  taste  by  turning  their 
backs  on  a  beautiful  river  view  to  face  a  dismal 
row  of  hotels  and  buildings,  including  a  Grand 
Theatre  which  is  anything  but  grand.  One  of 
the  statues  is  to  the  memory  of  Bernardin  de  St. 
Pierre,  who  was  born  in  Havre  in  1737,  and 
died  in  18 14,  having  in  the  interim  opened  the 
tear  valves  of  thousands  by  writing  "Paul  and 
Virginia."  The  other  was  a  tribute  to  a  drama- 
tist, Casimir  de  Lavigne,  born  at  Havre  1793, 
died  1843,  of  whose  works  we  in  common  with 
most  Americans  are  ignorant. 

At  the  Hotel  Tortoni  we  sat  at  a  sidewalk 
table  and  discussed  a  good  luncheon  washed 
down  with  Evian  water.  We  had  some  difficulty 
in  trying  to  describe  a  non-sparkling  water  by 
sign  language.  Finally  we  met  on  common 
ground  with  the  phrase  "sans  gaz"  and  thereafter 
those  two  words  became  the  favorite  children 
in  our  adopted  vocabulary. 

We  drove  down  the  rue  Victor  Hugo  and 
there  discovered  a  really  wise  practice,  that  of 
putting  the  date  of  the  birth  and  death  of  the 
man  after  the  name  of  the  street  thus:  rue 
Victor  Hugo  (1802- 1885).  All  blank  walls  in 
France  are  labeled  "Defense  d'Afficher,"  which 
is  French  for  "Post  no  Bills"  and  which  is, 
strangely  enough,  respected  throughout  France. 

We  reached  the  train  four  minutes  ahead  of 


Crossing  to  Havre  23 

time  and  rode  in  the  only  first-class  coach  we 
entered  on  our  trip.  Our  excuse  for  this  ex- 
travagance was  that  we  would  save  two  hours 
by  taking  the  12  43  train  to  Rouen  and  that 
train  carried  only  first-class  carriages.  The 
tickets  were  $1.90  each.  Second-class  would 
have  been  $1.35  each  and  this  forty  per  cent 
difference  we  saved  thereafter,  with  no  discom- 
fort to  ourselves  except  an  occasional  crowding 
of  our  luggage. 

Our  compartment  was  shared  by  a  traveling 
salesman.  We  were  at  a  loss  to  understand  his 
extravagance  until  he  opened  up  a  conversation 
with  us  and  then  later  his  sample  case.  Such  an 
array  of  beautiful  watches,  necklaces  and  gold 
bags!  He  was  carrying  fifty  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  jewelry  and  traveled  first-class  for 
safety.  Of  course,  he  used  a  mileage  book, 
thereby  effecting  a  considerable  saving. 

The  railways  in  France  do  not  depend  on  mere 
signatures  to  identify  the  user  of  a  mileage  book. 
Each  purchaser  must  be  photographed  and  his 
picture  is  pasted  on  a  card  bearing  other  data 
and  exhibited  whenever  called  for  by  an  official 
either  on  the  train  or  at  the  depot  turnstile. 

Our  first  station  was  Harflenr — older  than 
Havre — through  which  we  ran  without  stopping, 
showing  that  disrespect  for  old  age  so  character- 
istic of  the  period.    Then  we  pulled  out  into  the 


24  Three  Weeks  in  France 

open  country  of  Normandy,  past  miles  of  the 
most  carefully  cultivated  landscape  on  the  globe. 
We  passed  scores  of  wheat  fields  whose  rich  gold 
was  flecked  with  the  flaming  red  of  thousands  of 
poppies;  past  small  patches  of  grain  already  cut 
and  lying  on  the  ground  or  standing  in  tiny 
shocks,  fifty  shocks  sometimes  being  the  entire 
crop  of  a  single  field;  past  little  churches  and 
clean  villages  and  into  the  environs  of  Rouen 
almost  before  we  knew  it. 


Rouen  25 


II 

Rouen 


rWWl  E  whirled  into  the  city,  past  streets  trod- 
a  A  J  ^en  ^  William  the  Conqueror  as  a  boy, 
HA«|  streets  which  saw  the  degradation  of 
France  when  Joan  of  Arc  was  burned. 
A  transporter  bridge  was  swinging  back 
and  forth  over  the  Seine  taking  on  and  empty- 
ing its  freight  of  men  and  horses  like  some  huge 
cash-railway.  On  the  right  are  the  gray  towers 
of  St.  Ouen.  We  were  thirty  minutes  late  of  the 
two  hours  which  we  tried  to  save,  but  no  matter, 
we  were  in  the  land  of  "no  hurry"  and  were 
learning  if  not  to  go  slow,  at  least  not  to  worry. 
At  the  hotel,  we  found  our  beds  provided  with 
those  huge  mattress-like,  downy,  near-coverlets 
so  common  in  France.  Posters  announced  the 
opening  of  a  race  meet  on  Sunday,  July  7th  in 
charge  of  the  Minister  of  Agriculture,  with 
purses  offered  by  the  government,  and  once  more 
it  was  impressed  upon  us  that  we  were  abroad. 
Fancy  Secretary  Wilson  opening  the  spring  meet 


26  Three  Weeks  in  France 

at  Sheepshead  or  part  of  a  congressional  appro- 
priation hung  up  as  prizes  for  a  trotting  meet! 

Rouen  is  a  museum  of  antiquities  rather  than 
an  ancient  city.  Its  relics  in  the  way  of  squares 
and  buildings  have  a  modern  setting,  like  Roman 
coins  in  a  glass  show  case. 

Its  old  belfry  is  its  Birmingham  mark  of  inde- 
pendence. Only  in  cities  where  the  burghers 
had  power  and  used  it  were  belfries  to  be  found. 
No  need  for  a  Roland  to  summon  slaves  to 
assemble. 

"The  privilege  of  Romain"  was  one  of  the 
ancient  usages  of  Rouen,  dropped  since  1790. 
Its  origin  is  wrapped  in  the  mists  of  antiquity. 
Its  earliest  recorded  observance  was  12 10  and 
either  it  was  based  on  the  legend  of  St.  Romain 
or  else  the  legend  was  woven  around  the  practice 
later.  At  any  rate,  once  upon  a  time  a  "gar- 
gouille"  lived  in  a  cave  and  devoured  passing 
citizens.  He  was  old  and  ugly,  ancestor  possibly 
to  the  stony  gargoyles  of  Notre  Dame  in  Paris. 
St.  Romain  used  a  prisoner  for  bait  to  lure  him 
from  his  den.  The  dragon  was  caught  without 
losing  the  bait  and  thereafter  on  each  Ascension 
Day  for  almost  eight  centuries  a  prisoner  was 
liberated  amid  scenes  of  great  rejoicing  in  which 
a  large  dragon  and  a  long  procession  cut  much 
figure. 

Normandy's   greatest  son,   William  the   Con- 


^ 


Rouen  27 

queror,  was  born  at  Rouen  in  1028.  His  father 
was  the  sixth  duke,  Robert,  known  as  the  Mag- 
nificent among  the  courtiers  but  more  widely 
named  Robert  the  Devil.  The  mother  was  a 
tanner's  daughter  and  William's  first  title  sug- 
gested the  informality  of  his  birth.  Later  in 
his  life  he  insisted  on  strict  rules  of  marriage 
in  the  church  among  his  subjects — but  like  many 
travelers,  he  relaxed  in  his  own  behavior  when 
en  tour.  Else  had  there  never  been  the  family  of 
Peveril  of  the  Peak  in  England. 

The  repartee  of  William  when  retorting  upon 
those  who  gibed  at  his  humble  origin  was  force- 
ful rather  than  humorous  and  would  have  been 
remembered  by  its  victims  through  a  longer  life 
than  usually  was  vouchsafed  to  them. 

When  a  beseiged  city  hung  tanned  skins  upon 
its  walls  as  a  delicate  reminder  of  the  lowly  trade 
of  his  maternal  grandfather,  William's  reply  was 
to  toss  hands,  feet  and  other  choice  morsels  of 
prisoners  over  the  ramparts.  When  King  Philip 
at  the  time  of  William's  illness  uttered  an  un- 
timely jest  regarding  the  number  of  candles  that 
should  be  lighted  around  his  sick  bed,  William's 
neat  little  response  was  a  promise  to  burn  one 
hundred  thousand  in  Philip's  honor  as  soon  as 
he  recovered.  He  kept  his  word  at  Mantes  and 
burned  the  city  at  the  same  time. 

He  died  at  St.  Gervais  in  Rouen  in  1087,  be- 


28  Three  Weeks  in  France 

queathing  Normandy  to  his  son  Robert  "Short 
Hose"  who  fell  down  for  lack  of  supporters, 
and  giving  much  treasure  for  the  rebuilding  of 
churches  in  France  and  England. 

As  a  sort  of  codicil  he  left  the  throne  of  Eng- 
land in  the  hands  of  God  and  William  Rufus. 
He  was  buried  at  Caen  and  in  1793  his  tomb  was 
destroyed  during  the  Reign  of  Terror. 

Richard  Coeur  de  Lion  was  another  Duke  of 
Normandy  who  reached  the  front  page  fre- 
quently. His  lion  heart  is  buried  in  the  cathedral 
at  Rouen,  the  first  place  visited  by  us. 

Its  most  beautiful  tower  is  the  Tour  de  la 
Beurre,  built  with  funds  contributed  by  the  peo- 
ple for  the  privilege  of  using  butter  during  Lent. 
Nowadays  the  butter  privilege  in  France  seems 
to  have  been  surrendered  during  the  entire  year? 
We  paused  before  a  memorial  tablet  to  La  Salle 
who  died  March  19,  1687  "apres  avoir  decouvert 
et  explore  les  Bassins  de  l'Ohio  et  du  Missis- 
sippi." 

Rollo,  the  first  duke  of  Normandy  is  buried 
here,  on  the  south  side  of  the  cathedral.  His 
tomb  dates  from  the  thirteenth  century.  It  is 
a  long  time  to  have  been  dead. 

A  mutilated  figure  of  Richard  Coeur  de  Lion 
was  shown  to  us.  He  died  in  11 99  and  the  statue 
was  found  somewhere  about  seventy-five  years 
ago  and  brought  to  the  church. 


NTATI'K    OF   JKAXXN    I  >'A  UC— KOI'KX 


Rouen  29 

The  most  interesting,  because  the  most  insin- 
cere, tribute  in  the  cathedral  is  the  magnificent 
tomb  of  Louis  de  Breze,  titular  husband  of  Diana 
of  Poitiers  whose  fondness  for  Henry  II  oc- 
casioned some  remark  during  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury. The  grateful  widow  is  depicted  kneeling. 
I  could  not  read  the  inscription,  but  it  probably 
anticipated  Charles  II's  remark  to  his  courtiers 
about  "being  an  unconscionably  long  time  dy- 
ing." 

The  most  imposing  tomb  in  the  cathedral  (be- 
cause Breze's  tomb  really  imposes  upon  no  one) 
is  the  monument  to  the  great  Cardinal  George 
d'Amboise  and  his  nephew.  High  above  them 
near  the  ceiling  are  suspended  (as  is  the  uni- 
versal custom)  the  red  hats  of  their  office. 

Cardinal  d'Amboise  was  the  energetic  minister 
of  lazy  Louis  XII  whose  motto  was  "Laissez 
Georges  le  faire,"  which  put  into  plain  English 
means  "Let  George  do  it." 

The  misericorde  seats  in  the  choir,  eighty-eight 
in  number,  are  beautifully  carved  and  represent 
the  various  trades.     No  two  are  alike. 

The  crowning  glory  of  the  cathedral  is  its 
stained  glass.  Story  after  story  the  windows 
rise  in  five  divisions,  making  the  most  magnifi- 
cent large  display  of  the  kind  in  France.  Of 
course   nothing  equals  the  gem-like  beauty  of 


30  Three  Weeks  in  France 

La  Sainte  Chapelle  in  Paris,  but  the  latter  is  tiny 
beside  the  cathedral  at  Rouen. 

The  Duke  of  Bedford  is  buried  near  the  high 
altar.  During  his  administration  he  did  a  great 
deal  for  Rouen  but  at  the  same  time  his  council- 
ors by  his  consent  were  pursuing  Jeanne  d'Arc 
with  every  legal  and  religious  technicality.  No 
one  invoked  the  Privilege  of  Romain  for  her. 

We  drove  past  an  old  flower  market  redolent 
with  bloom  and  noted  a  queer  sign  for  a  dry 
goods  store :  "Au  bon  Diable."  Our  destination 
was  St.  Maclou,  whose  doors  are  black  with 
age  and  grotesquely  carved.  The  first  Maclou 
was  a  Scotchman,  Bishop  of  Aleth.  He  died  in 
561.  Writhin,  a  Gothic  staircase  leads  to  the  organ 
loft.  The  stairs  to  the  organ  in  Ely  cathedral 
are  copied  from  these.  At  the  doorway  an  old 
woman  sat  rattling  a  tin  cup  and  begging.  This 
dolorous  and  regularly  repeated  noise  finally 
drove  us  into  the  street.  Beggars  follow  you 
everywhere  in  Rouen,  even,  or  especially,  into 
the  churches. 

To  escape  them  we  felt  like  reviving  the 
"clameur  de  haro"  (ha  Rou)  or  call  of  "Haro," 
the  ancient  "Hey  Rube"  of  the  Rouenese,  which 
still  survives  in  the  Channel  Islands.  It  is  quoted 
in  Sir  Gilbert  Parker's  "Battle  of  the  Strong" 
in  speaking  of  Jersey: 


Rouen  3 1 

"A  Norman  dead  a  thousand  years  cries  Haro ! 
Haro!  if  you  tread  upon  his  grave." 

Rolf,  or  Rou,  made  Rouen  his  headquarters 
in  876.  It  had  disappeared  as  a  city  after 
Charlemagne's  death. 

Rouen's  situation  made  her  a  favorite  place 
of  assault  for  ages.  Thus  to-day  she  is  not  so 
much  a  relic  of  Rome  as  of  the  Gothic  captains 
who  overthrew  Rome.  There  is  little  extant 
of  Merovingian  Rouen  except  in  the  cases  of 
the  Museum  of  Antiquities.  Bronze  axe  heads 
and  women's  gear  survive.  Finger  rings  are 
more  numerous  than  weapons.  Vanity  preserves 
her  own  more  tenaciously  than  does  ambition. 

Fredegond  made  Rouen  howl  in  the  sixth  cen- 
tury. She  was  decidedly  deadlier  than  the  male 
of  her  species.  She  spared  neither  relative  nor 
prelate.  She  ran  amuck  through  the  pages  of 
history  with  poison  and  dagger.  She  murdered 
a  bishop  and  was  never  punished.  We  ascer- 
tained that  she  was  safely  dead  or  we  would  have 
crossed  Rouen  from  our  itinerary. 

The  Palais  de  Justice  next  claimed  our  atten- 
tion. It  is  a  greater  monument  to  Georges  d'Am- 
boise  than  the  one  in  the  cathedral.  The  driver, 
as  usual,  was  eloquent  regarding  the  charms  of 
its  interior.  A  cabby  dearly  loves  to  make  a 
ten-minute  drive  to  a  building,  and  then  wait 
fifty  minutes  outside  while  you  inspect  the  in- 


2,2  Three  Weeks  in  France 

terior.  Nevertheless  the  rascals  charge  sight- 
seers more  per  hour  than  they  do  natives  who 
keep  them  on  the  move  every  minute. 

The  Palais  de  Justice  is  the  most  beautiful 
courthouse  in  the  world.  The  ceilings  of  the 
Hall  of  Pas-perdus  should  be  studied. 

The  Hotel  du  Bourgtheroulde  is  partly  used 
as  a  bank,  partly  as  a  residence.  It  has  on  its 
exterior  a  bas  relief  representing  scenes  at  the 
meeting  of  Francis  I  and  Henry  VIII  in  1520 
on  the  Field  of  the  Cloth  of  Gold  where  Francis 
tried  to  impress  Henry  by  the  magnificent  dis- 
play of  wealth  but  only  aroused  his  desire  to 
possess  it.  The  bas  reliefs  are  almost  worn  away 
but  the  principal  figures  are  pointed  out. 
Henry  IV  slept  here,  but  with  fine  sarcasm  they 
have  put  up  a  plate  on  the  wall  stating  that 
Jeanne  d'Arc  never  sojourned  there. 

Near  the  Hotel  du  Bourgtheroulde  is  the  Old 
Market.  Meat  and  fish  are  still  being  sold  there 
as  they  were  in  143 1  when  at  its  northwest  cor- 
ner occurred  the  most  diabolical  act  since  the 
Crucifixion:  the  burning  of  Joan  of  Arc.  The 
disgrace  is  divided  between  the  church  and  the 
governments  of  France  and  England,  and  there 
is  enough  to  go  around.  France,  by  adding  in- 
gratitude to  bigotry  and  cowardice,  is  entitled 
to  the  larger  share. 


Rouen  33 

A  tablet  marks  the  spot  and  it  is  perpetually 
covered  with  mourning  wreaths. 

Henry  V's  army  was  at  Rouen  when  the  Eng- 
lish bought  Joan  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who 
bought  her  of  John  of  Luxembourg  who  bought 
her  of  the  Bastard  of  Vendome  who  captured 
her  at  Compiegne  abandoned  in  the  midst  of  the 
enemy.  The  price  was  ten  thousand  pieces  of 
gold  to  the  church,  the  price  of  an  army. 

The  charges  against  her  were  (1)  employing 
magic,  (2)  disobeying  parents  in  taking  up  arms, 
(3)  wearing  male  apparel  and  (4)  asserting 
revelations  without  ecclesiastical  authority.  She 
was  tried  by  the  English  to  whom  she  had  been 
sold.  Under  threats  she  recanted  and  was  given 
a  life  sentence.  This  did  not  satisfy  her  purchas- 
ers. They  left  nothing  but  men's  clothes  in  her 
cell.  Forced  to  don  these  or  appear  unclothed 
before  her  brutal  jailers  she  was  re-sentenced, 
this  time  to  be  burned. 

Three  scaffolds  were  erected  at  the  Old  or  Fish 
Market.  On  one  was  Beaufort  representing  the 
King  of  England  and  the  prelates  representing  the 
church  of  God;  on  the  other  the  preachers, 
judges  and  bailli ;  on  the  third  was  Joan.  They 
burned  the  wrong  scaffold! 

A  great  platform  was  raised  beside  Joan's 
scaffold.  It  was  made  of  plaster  and  heaped  high 
with  wood.     The  idea  was  to  make  her  visible 


34  Three  Weeks  in  France 

above  the  lances  to  the  remote  parts  of  the  square 
— so  that  the  smallest  lion  should  not  be  deprived 
of  his  share  of  Daniel. 

She  was  bound  to  the  stake  and  crowned  with 
a  mitre  bearing  the  inscription  "Heretic,  re- 
lapsed, apostate,  idolater."  Her  murderers  for- 
got that  God  had  learned  to  distrust  human  signs 
since  that  other  day  of  Calvary. 

Some  of  her  replies  showed  great  wisdom. 
When  asked  the  catch  question  whether  she  was 
sure  of  the  favor  of  God,  she  evaded  the  trap 
by  replying:  "If  I  am  not,  may  God  help  me  to 
it;  if  I  am,  may  God  preserve  me  in  it." 

Soon  after  her  execution  Pierre  Cauchon, 
Bishop  of  Beauvais,  who  pronounced  her  sen- 
tence, died  of  apoplexy.  Nicole  Midi,  who  de- 
livered the  sermon  at  the  execution,  was  struck 
with  leprosy. 

No  attempt  was  made  by  the  French  to  rescue 
her.  The  religious  crime  involved  in  the  burn- 
ing of  Joan  of  Arc  does  not  worry  me.  It  would 
take  an  excellent  mathematician  to  strike  a  bal- 
ance between  Catholic  and  Protestant  in  the  mat- 
ter of  crimes.  But  the  disgrace  to  France  in 
allowing  the  English  to  kill  this  nineteen-year- 
old  girl  is  ineffaceable.  She  was  the  first  patriot 
France  ever  had  and  France  sold  her  for  gold. 

One  of  the  bright  rays  in  the  dark  dungeon  of 
the  Tour  Jeanne  d'Arc  was  in  February,  1432, 


SCENE  <>K   JEANNE'S    MARTYRDOM      ROKKN 


Rouen  35 

when  Ricarville  with  fewer  than  one  hundred 
men  was  let  in  by  Pierre  Audeboeuf  and  killed 
the  entire  English  garrison  except  the  Earl  of 
Arundel — who  has  since  died.  Gallant  Ricar- 
ville! We  searched  in  vain  for  your  tomb,  but 
we  dropped  a  tear  in  the  neighborhood  in  honor 
of  the  man  who  did  something  to  the  murderers 
of  Joan.  For  fifty  days  this  handful  of  men  held 
the  entire  English  garrison  at  bay  and  yet  nine 
months  before  none  of  them  lifted  a  hand  to  save 
her.  It  was  not  until  1449  that  Charles  VII 
again  rode  into  Rouen. 

We  dismissed  our  cabby  and  spent  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  dodging  cabs.  The  sidewalks  vary 
in  width  from  nothing  to  two  feet.  The  streets 
are  narrow  and  crooked  and  used  by  pedestrians 
more  than  the  sidewalks. 

The  women  of  Rouen  have  rosy  cheeks,  and 
like  most  French  women  are  in  active  charge  of 
business.  We  soon  became  accustomed  to  women 
at  the  desks  of  the  hotels  and  men  making  the 
beds. 

St.  Ouen  was  named  for  the  saint  who  was 
buried  in  the  second  church  erected  on  this  site 
in  689.  It  required  one  hundred  and  fifty  years 
and  fifty  architects  to  build  the  present  structure. 
It  was  started  in  1321.  The  first  twenty-one  years 
finished  choir  and  chapels,  the  huge  pillars  be- 


36  Three  Weeks  in  France 

neath  the  central  tower  and  part  of  the  transept, 
and  cost  five  million  francs.  The  church  has 
within  it  many  tombs  of  architects,  of  whom  the 
names  of  all  are  known  except  the  first  and 
greatest.  It  was  sacked  by  the  Protestants  in 
1562,  was  made  a  museum  by  the  Revolutionists 
and  in  1793  used  as  a  blacksmith  shop  and  arm- 
ory. It  has  survived  a  dozen  "restorations"  and 
is  still  beautiful.  In  its  cemetery  Joan  both  "ab- 
jured" and  was  "rehabilitated." 

They  showed  us  where  some  of  the  white  paint 
had  been  removed,  showing  the  ancient  paintings 
beneath.  Blue  was  the  most  expensive  color  used. 
It  was  made  from  lapis  lazuli  and  worth  its  weight 
in  gold.  Cobalt  blue  was  discovered  in  the  six- 
teenth century  by  a  German  glass  maker.  Green 
was  a  mixture  of  blue  with  yellow  ochre.  The 
white  was  powdered  &gg  shells.  The  black  was 
lamp  black. 

The  sides  of  St.  Ouen  are  nearly  all  glass.  It 
is  a  long  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tower  but  well 
worth  the  effort.  The  view  from  clerestory  and 
tower  is  magnificent. 

I  sat  myself  down  on  a  rocky  step  two  hundred 
feet  above  the  busy  streets  to  jot  down  my  im- 
pressions. To  the  southeast  lies  a  velvet  hill  with 
a  cemetery  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  down 
which  long-dormant  feet  will  slip  when  Gabriel 
blows  his  horn.     At  the  foot  of  the  hills  winds 


Rouen  t>7 

the  tortuous  Seine,  as  crooked  as  a  hotel  bill. 
Directly  south  is  St.  Maclou.  West  of  that 
rises  the  spire — with  lantern — and  two  towers 
of  Notre  Dame.  The  north  tower  is  in  splints 
undergoing  repairs,  but  the  "butter"  tower  is  in 
good  shape  and  free  from  scaffolding.  The  aerial 
or  "transporter"  bridge  farther  west  (a  similar 
one  is  at  Duluth)  is  conveying  passengers  across 
the  river.  The  gray  slate  roofs  with  individual 
chimneys  projecting  like  lemonade  straws  are 
bunched  in  irregular  groups  by  the  crooked 
streets.  At  our  feet  is  a  beautiful  park.  If  you 
care  for  them,  you  are  on  a  hand-shaking  level 
with  as  homely  a  lot  of  gargoyles  as  ever  spat 
rain  water  from  a  church  roof. 

We  moved  our  camera  so  as  not  to  disturb 
the  skeleton  of  a  baby  bird  which  must  have 
dropped  from  some  greater  height  to  its  death 
away  up  among  the  stones  of  St.  Ouen. 

Then  we  commenced  to  admire  and  wonder  at 
the  skill  and  courage  which  piled  this  sculptured 
mountain  high  in  the  air  centuries  before  steel, 
steam  and  electricity  made  sky-scraping  easy. 

To  the  north  lie  tree-clad  and  villa-dotted  hills, 
while  below  us  is  the  wide  pavement  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville,  faced  by  an  equestrian  statue  of  Napo- 
leon I.  Here  and  there  on  the  roof  of  St.  Ouen 
is  an  empty  pedestal  and  one  wonders  when  its 
statue  fell  and  whether  any  chance  passer-by  was 


38  Three  Weeks  in  France 

hurt  thereby.  Many  of  these  roof  stones  are 
leaded  together  instead  of  being  held  by  the  early 
Christian  mortars. 

Our  hotel  room  boasted  two — count  'em,  two 
— incandescent  lights  and  we  marveled  at  the 
liberality  of  the  management.  We  attempted  to 
turn  both  on  and  discovered  that  French  thrift 
had  anticipated  our  extravagance  and  contrived 
a  switch  which  turned  off  one  light  as  it  turned 
on  the  other.  This  device  we  found  in  most  of 
the  electric-lighted  hotels  in  France.  We  had  a 
lot  of  fun  trying  to  light  them  both  at  once  but 
finally  owned  ourselves  defeated. 

Our  dinner  bill  was  "augmented''  ten  cents  for 
the  privilege  of  eating  at  a  small  table.  In  spite 
of  the  fact  that  it  marked  us  for  extravagant 
Americans,  the  segregation  was  worth  the  price. 

A  loaf  of  bread  two  feet  long  and  uncut  was 
placed  in  front  of  us.  The  proper  practice  is  to 
hug  the  loaf  to  your  bosom,  and  draw  the  knife 
toward  you  in  severing  a  portion.  Butter  was 
brought  when  demanded  and  was  unsalted,  of 
course.  Wine  was  included  in  the  price  of  the 
meal  and  was  in  a  decanter  on  the  table.  Water 
was  more  difficult  but  was  secured.  Dinner  was 
served  in  courses  with  everything  changed  for 
each  course  but  napkins  and  table  cloth.  The 
food  was  well  seasoned  and  properly  cooked. 
That  remark  will  apply  to  every  meal  we  ate  in 


Rouen  39 

France.  Coffee  is  the  only  unpalatable  thing  they 
put  on  the  table.  After  one  or  two  attempts  we 
surrendered  and  for  breakfast  drank  chocolate, 
which  was  as  uniformly  excellent  as  the  coffee 
was  poor.  The  meal  ended  with  strawberries,  fat 
and  florid  to  the  eye,  but  apples  of  Sodom  to  the 
palate. 

The  large  table  was  filled  with  men,  principally 
traveling  salesmen  we  judged,  and  displaying 
many  varieties  of  French  whiskers.  Our  jewelry 
friend  of  the  train  renewed  his  acquaintance  with 
us  temporarily,  but  dropped  us  to  start  a  violent 
flirtation  with  a  seventeen  year  old  girl  at  another 
table.  This  gave  us  an  opportunity  to  study  the 
unique  ceiling  decorations  of  the  dining  room, 
formed  by  fitting  plates  and  platters  of  all  sizes 
into  the  design. 

The  jewelry  salesman  who  had  visited  Rouen 
a  hundred  times  admitted  that  he  had  never  been 
inside  the  Cathedral  nor  seen  the  spot  where 
Joan  was  burned. 

A  be  fore-break  fast  walk  revealed  the  fact  that 
a  suit  of  clothes  would  be  made  to  measure  for 
eleven  to  twenty-two  dollars  and  good  looking 
straw  hats  were  fifty-five  cents  each.  Not  many 
straw  hats  were  worn  in  this  part  of  France. 
The  loudest  patterns  in  clothing  were  marked 
"Sport,"  a  word  which  they  have  taken  over  from 


40  Three  Weeks  in  France 

the  English  with  a  pretty  definite  idea  of   its 
meaning. 

Women  in  mourning  abound  all  through 
France  and  especially  in  Normandy  and  Brittany. 
"When  they  mo'n,  they  mo'n"  in  a  manner  to 
excite  the  envy  of  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart's  Mor- 
iah.  We  were  puzzled  at  first  by  the  number  of 
seeming  widows.  France  had  not  had  any  recent 
wars  nor  had  she  been  visited  by  an  epidemic. 
What  then,  was  the  reason  for  all  these  trappings 
of  woe?  Inquiry  developed  the  information 
that  it  is  the  custom  to  wear  mourning  for  periods 
varying  from  three  months  to  a  year  for  husband, 
wife,  parents,  brothers  or  sisters,  and  in  a  coun- 
try of  large  families  this  means  almost  perpetual 
black. 

At  breakfast  the  waiter  asked  us  something 
about  Kelly,  and  B.  said  "Cease."  I  said,  "Don't 
be  so  brusque  with  the  young  man.  Answer  his 
question."  She  said,  "I  did.  He  asked  me  the 
number  of  our  room — 'Quelle  est  la  numero  de 
votre  chambre?' — and  I  told  him  six."  But  the 
way  he  melted  all  that  Quelly  stuff  into  three 
syllables  was  marvelous. 

An  Englishman  at  breakfast  inquired  if  there 
was  a  Thos.  Cook  &  Sons'  office  in  Rouen.  He 
wanted  to  go  to  Cannes  and  there  are  several 
depots  in  town.  Apparently  he  would  walk 
blocks  to  a  Cook's  office  rather  than  ask  the  lady 


Rouen  41 

at  the  desk.  Such  is  the  value  of  good-will  and 
the  force  of  habit.  If  there  was  no  Cook's  office 
in  Rouen  he  probably  went  to  the  nearest  town 
that  has  one  and  from  thence  to  Cannes.  Verily, 
you  cannot  have  too  many  Cooks. 

Our  first  purchase  was  a  copy  of  "L'Indicateur 
Chaix."  There  are  several  French  time-tables 
but  the  Chaix  one  is  the  most  complete.  It  is 
much  simpler  even  to  an  Englishman  than  Brad- 
shaw's.  It  is  issued  weekly  and  it  is  better  to 
have  a  late  copy  as  French  railroads  manifest 
the  national  trait  of  volatility  and  fickleness. 
When  the  train  guard  and  the  station  master  can 
not  agree  as  to  the  proper  time  for  starting  a 
train  they  refer  the  matter  to  L'Indicateur  and 
abide  by  its  decision. 

You  are  apt  to  catch  cold  warming  yourself  in 
sections  under  the  feather  mattress  which  forms 
the  bulk  of  your  bed  covering.  You  are  warmed 
very  much  as  French  farms  are  cultivated — in 
strips.  You  pull  the  mattress  up  to  your  chin  and 
go  to  sleep.  Presently  the  perspiration  from  the 
upper  half  of  your  body  trickles  down  to  your 
toes  where  it  forms  icicles.  Then  you  push  the 
cover  down  to  your  feet,  thaw  out  the  icicles  and 
dream  that  you  are  caught  by  the  shoulders  under 
a  slowly  descending  avalanche. 

After  breakfast  we  went  to  the  Tower  of  Joan 
of  Arc  and  into  her  cell,  not  her  worst  one — that 


42  Three  Weeks  in  France 

has  been  destroyed — but  into  the  better  one  to 
which  she  was  removed  before  her  execution.  It 
is  about  the  size  of  a  lower  berth.  We  peered 
through  a  narrow  slit  in  the  wall,  hardly  visible 
from  the  outside.  There  are  exhibited  in  the 
tower  many  reduced  copies  of  statues  erected  in 
Joan's  honor  all  over  the  world,  including  the 
beautiful  one  at  Domremy,  her  birthplace.  We 
studied  the  plans  of  the  old  prison,  bought  post 
cards,  petted  the  cat,  tipped  the  concierge  and 
drove  to  the  Boulevard  Jeanne  d'Arc  for  a  snap- 
shot of  the  tower.  Thence  we  went  down  her 
boulevard  past  countless  souvenir  stores  and  post 
card  shops,  for  Joan  has  been  capitalized  as  well 
as  canonized.  Then  our  driver  showed  us  a 
statue  of  Joan  which  he  said  was  put  up  in  the 
thirteenth  century  to  mark  the  spot  where  she  was 
burned  but  it  is  on  the  wrong  spot.  No  wonder 
they  made  a  mistake  two  centuries  before  the 
event.  They  should  have  waited.  We  tried  to 
move  the  driver  up  to  the  sixteenth  century  but 
he  would  come  no  farther  than  the  fourteenth  and 
in  his  own  mind  was  still  loyal  to  the  earlier  date. 
Baedeker  puts  the  date  as  1755,  and  makes  no 
mention  of  the  error.  It  says  on  the  statue,  1456. 
B.  reported  that  date  but  my  curiosity  being  by 
this  time  thoroughly  aroused,  I  got  out  and  in- 
vestigated. The  date  1456  is  given  as  the  date 
of  her  vindication — a  theological  unscrambling 


Rouen  43 

of  eggs  that  may  have  rescued  Joan's  soul  from 
the  flames,  but  did  not  save  her  poor  tortured 
body. 

Next  we  went  down  the  rue  Grosse  Horloge 
just  as  the  big  clock  struck  ten.  It  has  been 
keeping  fairly  accurate  time  since  1529. 

R.  L.  S.  tells  us  that  part  of  the  nineteen  months 
spent  by  John  Knox  in  the  galleys  was  on  the 
river  Seine  "where  he  held  stealthy  intercourse 
with  other  Scottish  prisoners  in  the  Castle  of 
Rouen." 

Corneille  was  born  in  a  house  in  what  is  now 
rue  Pierre  Corneille,  June  6,  1606.  B.  armed 
with  a  smile  and  a  single  franc  stormed  the  ad- 
jacent dwelling  and  secured  a  base  for  her  camera 
in  the  second  story  thereof.  You  can  do  as  much 
by  tipping  the  hat  as  by  tipping  the  concierge  in 
France.  Always  lift  it  the  limit.  A  mere  touch 
of  the  brim  is  a  deadlier  affront  than  a  nod. 

Corneille's  best  known  play  "Le  Cid"  is  played 
in  France  to-day.  He  was  a  great  dramatist  who 
fully  appreciated  himself,  being  typically  French 
in  that  respect.  When  reproached  for  not  cul- 
tivating the  graces  of  society,  his  defense  was 
"I  am  always  Pierre  Corneille." 

Moliere,  sixteen  years  his  junior,  played  in 
Rouen  in  1643  an(^  Pascal  lived  here  and  knew 
and  influenced  Corneille.  From  Rouen,  Rene 
Cavalier  de  la  Salle  set  out  to  explore  the  Missis- 


44  Three  Weeks  in  France 

sippi  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico.  Lord  Clarendon 
died  in  1674  at  Rouen,  an  exile  from  England. 

Rouen  was  only  lightly  touched  by  the  Reign 
of  Terror.  But  three  hundred  and  twenty-two 
persons  were  guillotined  in  all  of  Normandy. 

Every  tiny  house  had  a  tiny  bird  cage  in  front 
of  it  with  a  canary  in  it  trying  to  sing  its  little 
head  off.  A  French  poodle,  barbered  a  la  Sir 
Isaac,  sniffed  at  a  door  and  whined  but  was  too 
well  bred  to  scratch  and  wandered  away.  He 
was  not  so  formal  with  himself  as  he  was  with 
the  door. 

We  went  next  to  St.  Gervais  where  William 
the  Conqueror  laid  all  his  trophies  at  the  feet  of 
the  universal  conqueror,  death.  Underneath  this 
old  church  is  a  really  wonderful  crypt.  Here  is 
buried  St.  Mellen,  first  bishop  of  Rouen.  This 
is  the  oldest  crypt  in  France,  a  subterranean 
cavern  that  has  no  parallel  except  the  catacombs 
of  Rome.  It  is  thirty-seven  yards  long  and  sev- 
enteen yards  wide.  Low  stone  seats  run  around 
all  of  the  walls  except  at  the  altar. 

The  beautiful  windows  of  St.  Vincent  are  well 
worth  a  visit.  Those  in  the  south  of  the  church 
depict  scenes  in  the  life  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  are 
not  badly  marred  by  restoration. 

When  we  returned  to  the  carriage  we  found  the 
driver  engaged  in  conversation  with  a  shabby 
servant  girl  from  a  sailors'  boarding  house  near 


Rouen  45 

by.  She  had  run  out  on  the  chance  of  hearing 
some  English  and  being  a  Londoner,  was  hungry, 
poor  soul,  for  a  word  from  home. 

Yes,  she  goes  'ome  h'often  but  'aving  no  par- 
ents, it  mikes  little  difference  ware  she  is.  She 
'as  dawnced  a  bit  on  the  styge  in  Paris  but  that's 
no  life  for  a  gyurl.  She  likes  Rouen.  There's 
more  movement  'ere  than  in  'Avre. 

We  bade  her  good-bye  and  there  was  a  tear 
in  her  eye,  which  organ  is,  we  suspect,  always 
more  or  less  watery. 

Finishing  our  ride,  we  handed  our  pourboire 
to  the  driver  who  thanked  us  and  said  it  was 
"pour  manger"  and  not  drink  money. 

At  lunch  I  almost  ate  a  snail.  Later  I  actually 
accomplished  it.  But  at  Rouen  the  only  novelty 
that  we  really  ate  was  stewed  sheep's  feet,  not 
unlike  pig's  feet.  This  is  a  country  where  noth- 
ing is  thrown  away.  Even  the  feet  of  the  chicken 
are  not  entirely  removed  before  cooking.  They 
are  simply  pedicured. 

The  hotel  office  is  usually  six  by  eight  and 
devoted  exclusively  to  the  register,  ledger  and 
other  business  records.  The  loafing  must  be  clone 
either  in  the  cafe  or  dining  room,  or  else  in  the 
gloomy  recesses  of  the  parlor. 

Another  illustration  of  the  odd  names  for 
stores:  we  bought  pottery  at  Aux  Dames  de  la 
Maternite. 


46  Three  Weeks  in  France 

From  the  morning  paper  we  learned  of  riots 
at  Havre,  in  which  a  commissaire  de  police  re- 
ceived two  stones,  one  on  the  head  and  one  on 
the  cheek.  As  usual  "differentes  autres  person- 
nes,"  which  is  French  for  Innocent  Bystanders, 
were  hurt. 

We  also  read  in  the  American  news  that  "la 
victoire  of  M.  Wilson  in  novembre"  is  consid- 
ered "comme  possible"  and  that  the  success  of 
the  third  party  is  seriously  compromised.  From 
which  we  feared  that  the  French  readers  would 
infer  the  eternal  triangle  and  confuse  American 
politics  and  French  domestic  affairs  intermin- 
ably. 

The  entire  menage,  including  several  total 
strangers,  assembled  to  bleed  the  parting  guests. 
There  was  some  thinly-veiled  disappointment,  as 
our  slogan  abroad  is  "no  taxation  without  repre- 
sentation," no  tips  without  service  rendered. 

We  were  not  so  indiscriminate  as  an  American 
friend  whom  we  ran  across  at  Marseilles.  Hap- 
pening to  see  him  and  his  wife  in  their  carriage 
ready  to  depart  and  distributing  largesse  I  rushed 
forward  with  outstretched  hand  to  say  farewell, 
and  was  given  fifty  centimes. 


Chartres  47 


III 

Chartres 


BUR  train  to  Chartres  took  us  past  miles  of 
quarries  where  the  great  hills  have  been 
pared  away  like  cheeses,  past  market 

gardens  with  only  an  occasional  fence, 
through  Petit-Couronne  where  Corneille  lived. 
His  residence  is  now  a  museum.  On  every  side 
stretched  the  perfect  roads  and  symmetrical  trees 
of  France;  and  always  the  winding  Seine.  An 
anecdote  is  current  illustrating  the  crookedness  of 
this  river  and  the  ignorance  of  some  French  of- 
ficers, topographically,  during  the  Franco-Prus- 
sian war. 

General  Ducros  was  making  a  sortie  from 
Paris.  He  crossed  the  Seine  and  after  a  few 
hours'  march  came  upon  the  river  again.  He 
called  an  aide  to  his  side.  "What  river  is  this?" 
he  asked.  "The  Seine,  General,"  was  the  reply. 
"Great  heavens !     Then  we  are  retreating." 

Our  train  ran  through  a  tunnel.  Shortly  after- 
ward we  heard  the  patter  or  rumble  of  feet  on 


48  Three  Weeks  in  France 

the  roof  of  our  car  and  out  went  our  light.  More 
French  thrift. 

Another  instance.  The  freight  cars  intended 
for  the  rear  end  of  the  train  have  a  coupling  at 
one  end  only  and  the  car  is  labeled  "For  the  rear 
end  of  train." 

Thence  in  and  out  of  Elbeuf  with  women 
tending  railroad  gates  and  soldiers  loafing  about 
the  station.  The  town  and  river  are  below  the 
tracks  on  the  left  and  the  hills  tower  high  above 
on  the  right. 

We  crossed  the  Eure.  A  river  in  France  might 
be  described  as  a  stream  of  water  running  be- 
tween two  banks  with  a  woman  washing  clothes 
in  it.    The  river  laundry  is  ever  present. 

At  Louviers  many  third-class  travelers  came 
aboard,  including  a  shovel-hatted  priest.  We 
passed  through  the  great  Forest  of  Louviers  with 
the  cut  wood  carefuly  stacked  and  the  faggots  in 
bundles,  ready  for  kindling  or  brooms.  A  new 
tree  is  growing  for  every  one  cut  down.  Con- 
servation and  conversation  are  the  two  leading 
traits  of  the  French  nation.  The  Republic  was 
born  in  disorder  and  confusion,  but  has  out- 
grown it  nobly.  Even  the  stone  quarries  are 
orderly  and  the  viaducts  under  which  we  passed 
are  capped  at  top  as  neatly  as  a  castle  wall. 

Many  freight  cars  are  labeled  "32-40  men,  8 
horses,"  indicating  that  the  conveyance  of  men 


Chartres  49 

and  troops  is  always  the  ultimate  end  of  these 
government  railways. 

Many  men  and  women  were  cutting  grass  and 
wheat  with  scythes.  One  sees  so  few  modern 
mowing  machines  in  riding  through  France  on 
the  railroad  that  a  wrong  impression  is  given. 
We  were  told  by  a  representative  of  the  largest 
American  agricultural  machinery  house  that  his 
corporation  sold  about  thirty  thousand  mowers  a 
year  in  France  but  that  the  larger  farms  were 
not  close  to  the  railroads.  Add  to  this  the  fact 
that  the  French  farmer  houses  his  machinery 
when  not  in  use  instead  of  leaving  it  in  his  fields 
a  l'American,  and  you  can  further  account  for 
the  apparent  dearth  of  modern  implements. 

At  Bueil  a  company  of  soldiers  clambered 
aboard  bound  for  Bordeaux,  another  strike  cen- 
ter. The  train  alongside  for  Cherbourg  was  also 
filled  with  red  epaulets  peeping  from  the  car  win- 
dows like  soiled  poppies.  As  long  as  the  strike 
continued  the  French  army  had  ample  employ- 
ment. 

It  was  raining  when  we  passed  through  Ivry- 
la-Bataille,  famous  for  the  White  Plume  of 
Navarre  and  the  great  victory  of  Henry  IV  over 
the  powers  of  darkness  or  the  army  of  the  Lord, 
depending  on  your  point  of  view.  Henry's  view 
point  shifted,  you  remember. 

The  people  along  the  tracks  cheered  the  sol- 


50  Three  Weeks  in  France 

diers  on  the  train  and  the  boys  responded  with 
bugle  calls.  The  private  soldier  is  much  nearer 
the  hearts  of  the  people  in  France  in  time  of  peace 
than  is  "the  regular  army  man"  at  home. 

It  was  still  raining  as  we  pulled  into  Dreux 
where  the  Due  de  Guise  whipped  the  Protestants 
and  captured  Conde  in  1562.  Henry  IV  be- 
sieged it  in  1590  and  again  in  1593  and  destroyed 
its  castle.  The  Germans  took  it  in  1870  but 
then  the  Germans  took  almost  everything  in 
this  part  of  the  country. 

Speaking  of  names,  the  Allez  Brothers  of  Paris 
furnish  the  benches  at  the  rural  stations.  The 
name  "Allez"  does  not  suggest  repose.  The 
peasants  hereabouts  are  burned  black  and  are 
like  in  complexion  but  in  nothing  else  the  peasant 
of  pre-Revolutionary  times. 

At  Chartres  at  last,  once  the  granary  of  Paris. 
We  scorned  the  advances  of  the  porter  of  the 
Grand  Hotel  de  France  and  insisted  upon  being 
driven  to  the  Hotel  de  Due  de  Chartres — nothing 
less.  Our  omnibus  climbed  a  short,  steep  hill  and 
deposited  us  at  the  Duke's  hostelry.  We  in- 
quired for  dinner  and  found  we  must  eat  at  the 
de  France  half  a  block  away  as  our  hotel  was  an 
annex  thereof  and  under  the  same  management. 
Our  room  was  on  the  first  floor  facing  the  Place 
des  Epar  and  looking  at  a  bronze  statue  of  Gen- 
eral Marceau,  born  at  Chartres  in   1769.     He 


Chartres  51 

was  and  is  Chartres'  favorite  son.  He  was  the 
revolutionary  officer  who  whipped  the  Vendean 
army  at  Le  Mans,  a  soldier  at  sixteen,  a  gen- 
eral at  twenty-three,  a  corpse  at  twenty-seven, 
on  the  borders  of  the  Rhine.  The  path  of  glory 
led  to  the  grave  by  a  short  cut  in  his  case. 

Chartres  is  not  so  proud  of  Petion  who  was  also 
born  here  in  1753.  He  was  a  fierce  Jacobin  and 
supporter  of  Robespierre.  It  was  Petion  who 
personally  conducted  the  return  trip  of  Louis  XVI 
and  party  from  Varennes  and  was  unnecessarily 
rough  about  it  considering  the  amiable  character 
of  his  chief  prisoner.  He  was  mayor  of  Paris  in 
1791  and  voted  for  the  execution  of  the  king. 
Nevertheless  Robespierre,  the  "sea  green,"  ar- 
rested him  with  the  Girondists  in  1793.  He  es- 
caped and  perished  in  a  field  either  by  suicide  or 
starvation. 

Henry  IV  was  crowned  at  Chartres.  Henry 
had  a  way  of  scattering  his  activities  like  a  true 
politician.  Every  city  in  France  is  a  witness  of 
something  he  did  in  it  or  to  it. 

After  dinner  we  retired  to  Room  4,  with  one 
candle  each.  We  found  that  there  were  no  bath- 
rooms in  the  hotel  and  that  the  public  baths  in 
this  town  of  twenty-three  thousand  people  close  at 
six  P.  M.  even  on  Saturday  nights !  Which  con- 
firmed my  theory  as  to  the  relative  popularity  of 


52  Three  Weeks  in  France 

bathing  and  drinking  in  France,  for  the  Buvettes 
never  close. 

After  trying  to  write  by  the  shade  of  a  candle 
I  turned  both  illuminants  over  to  B.  and  re- 
treated to  the  parlor  where  the  gas  was  burning 
brightly. 

We  sighted  the  cathedral  miles  before  our  train 
reached  Chartres.  Therein  in  1594,  Henry  IV, 
finding  that  it  was  a  case  of  "No  cross,  no 
crown,"  accepted  both. 

Within  the  Cathedral  is  an  effigy  of  Berengaria 
who  in  private  life  was  Mrs.  Richard  Couer  de 
Lion.  The  effigy  forms  a  stiff  contrast  to  her 
glowing  picture  in  Scott's  "Tales  of  the  Cru- 
saders." 

We  arose  early  on  Sunday  morning  but  found 
many  were  up  ahead  of  us  and  crossing  the  Place 
in  droves  on  their  way  to  mass  at  the  Cathedral. 

A  yard  or  so  of  bread  was  delivered  at  the 
hotel  door  which  we  recognized  later  at  the  break- 
fast table  by  the  Bertillon  system.  The  break- 
fast table  was  spread  in  our  room  as  is  the  cus- 
tom in  most  dining-roomless  hotels.  As  we  ate 
we  noticed  dozens  of  nurses  in  lace  caps  and  here 
and  there  a  vegetable  cart  drawn  by  a  burro.  As 
a  beast  of  burden  the  burro  is  hard  to  beat.  At 
least  he  is  hard  to  beat  with  any  result.  There 
were  many  cyclists.  A  little  girl  all  in  white  at- 
tended by  her  mother  drove  past  from  the  city 


Chartres  53 

hall  to  the  Cathedral.  We  suspected  that  she 
was  going  to  confirmation.  Later  we  walked 
over  to  the  church  and  had  our  suspicions  con- 
firmed. 

A  great  many  automobiles  honked  by.  A  rail- 
road runs  down  the  west  side  of  the  square  and 
a  funny  little  mixed  train  toddled  along  ringing 
what  sounded  like  a  subdued  dinner  bell.  It 
pulled  tiny  band  boxes  filled  with  freight  and 
small  bird  cages  full  of  people. 

Our  room  viewed  from  the  outside  has  two 
shuttered  windows.  They  do  not  come  through. 
A  cavalryman  in  blue  harem  skirts  walked  by 
leading  a  fine  looking  horse.  The  man  looked 
like  a  Cossack,  so  dark  was  his  skin  and  so  red 
his  fez. 

In  the  Cathedral  several  services  were  being 
conducted  in  the  various  chapels,  so  we  left  our 
cards  for  Berengaria  and  softly  walked  out. 
The  windows  must  be  magnificent  on  a  brighter 
day. 

As  we  were  leaving,  two  priests  entered.  One 
of  them  moistened  his  finger  in  the  font  and 
passed  his  dampened  digits  to  the  other  who 
seemed  to  obtain  from  them  sufficient  unction 
to  satisfy  his  cravings. 

Our  driver  showed  the  usual  predilection  for 
rural  scenes  and  drove  us  as  far  from  the  hotel 
as  possible.    All  the  time  a  light  rain  was  falling 


54  Three  Weeks  in  France 

and  we  were  insufficiently  protected  by  a  rubber 
hood  which  permitted  us  to  be  gently  soaked  from 
the  waist  up. 

We  stopped  for  a  minute  on  a  bridge  across  the 
Eure  and  the  sun  removed  five  of  his  seven  veils, 
permitting  a  picture  of  some  reflections  more 
beautiful  than  our  own.  Several  fishermen  with 
the  tireless  patience  of  their  craft  were  standing 
on  the  banks.  If  it  be  a  sin  to  catch  fish  on  Sun- 
day we  believe  the  Eure  a  most  sinless  stream. 

A  five-passenger  donkey  cart  passed  us,  cutting 
out  the  muffler  as  it  went,  and  emitting  from 
the  propeller  a  beautiful  nasal  bray  quite  Parisian 
in  its  perfection.  We  caught  splendid  views  of 
the  spires  of  Notre  Dame  from  several  points 
along  the  river. 

Once  when  B.  was  skirmishing  for  a  snapshot 
our  driver  calmly  halted  on  the  railroad  track.  I 
dismounted  and  made  notes  from  a  neighboring 
bench.  I  was  not  afraid  of  the  cars  but  I  did  not 
want  to  be  a  party  to  the  wrecking  of  one  of  their 
toy  trains. 

We  stopped  at  old  St.  Andre,  seven  hundred 
years  of  age  and  now  a  warehouse,  a  not  un- 
familiar sacrilege  with  less  venerable  church 
buildings  at  home.  We  climbed  several  steps  to 
reach  the  front.  Its  roof  was  thickly  grown  with 
grass.  How  much  kinder  nature  is  to  buildings 
than  to  men.    Us  she  strips  of  even  our  normal 


Chartres  55 

head  covering  as  the  years  pass  by.  The  stone 
balustrade  of  the  stairway  was  even  more  worn 
than  the  steps  and  as  we  paused  the  reason  be- 
came obvious.  Eighty  per  cent  of  the  passers-by 
were  children  and  ninety  per  cent  of  the  kiddies 
slid  down  the  banisters. 

We  killed  time  on  the  ominous  sounding  rue 
du  Massacre  for  awhile  and  photographed  some 
picturesque  back  doors.  Many  women  were 
keeping  the  Sabbath  by  beating  the  dirt  out  of 
some  laundry  on  the  rocks. 

The  sun  came  out  as  we  drove  through  Porte 
Guillaume,  a  part  of  the  old  city  walls. 

We  loafed  around,  catching  here  and  there 
glimpses  of  old  timbered  houses,  notably  on  the 
Place  de  la  Poissonerie.  We  passed  the  same 
dark-skinned  vender  of  pottery  half  a  dozen  times 
with  what  looked  like  a  ton  of  crated  earthen- 
ware packed  on  the  back  of  a  diminutive  donkey 
which  could  almost  have  crawled  into  the  largest 
of  the  vessels  he  was  carrying. 

On  the  rue  Noel  Ballay  is  an  interesting  nar- 
row old  house,  the  Maison  du  Docteur.  Its  his- 
tory we  did  not  learn,  but  it  needs  no  legend  to 
make  it  picturesque. 

On  the  corner  of  a  building  at  the  end  of  the 
street  a  large  barometer  had  its  arrow  pointing 
to  "Variable."  That  is  always  a  safe  bet.  The 
arrow  micrht  well  be  nailed  there. 


56  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  returned  to  the  hotel  and  after  eating,  sat 
in  the  hotel  parlor.  There  were  many  engravings 
and  paintings  on  the  wall.  All  bad.  The  table 
was  covered  with  a  mass  of  literary  miscellany 
which  for  dullness  and  antiquity  has  only  one 
equal  in  the  United  States  and  that  is  in  the  wait- 
ing room  of  the  average  dentist. 

Another  walk  emphasized  the  weakness  of  the 
surface  sewer  system.  We  learned  quickly  to 
sidestep  the  yawning  spout  when  it  is  spouting 
from  the  side  of  a  residence,  like  an  inverted 
gargoyle  which  has  taken  to  drink  and  is  filled 
with  vain  regrets  and  emptied  of  all  else.  We 
left  the  sidewalks  to  the  sleeping  dogs  and  walked 
in  the  streets. 

There  are  interesting  crypts  under  the  Cathe- 
dral but  we  did  not  visit  them.  Service  was  still 
going  on  upon  the  occasion  of  our  second  call 
and  we  dropped  a  coin  into  the  box  "for  heating 
the  church"  and  came  away.  One  chapel  in  the 
Cathedral  at  Rouen  had  a  box  for  demands  as 
well  as  one  for  offerings,  an  excellent  idea. 


Mont  St.  Michel  57 


IV 

Mont  St.  Michel 


M 


E  left  for  Vitre,  passing  through  more 
miles  of  fenceless  France.  For  the  first 
time  we  noted  snow  sheds  to  the  right  of 
the  track.  It  was  hot  in  the  afternoon 
whereas  it  had  been  damp  and  cold  in  the  morning. 
We  stopped  at  La  Loupe  until  the  triple  signal 
was  given  for  starting.  First  the  station  master 
indicated  his  desire  to  be  rid  of  us  by  blowing  a 
tin  whistle.  The  conductor  acquiesced  by  a  blast 
on  a  small  horn.  Lastly  the  engineer  tooted  his 
steam  whistle  either  before  or  just  as  the  train 
started.  This  is  the  usual  modus  operandi  except 
at  very  small  stations,  when  either  the  tin  whistle 
or  horn  frequently  is  absent. 

The  beautiful  pastures  of  La  Perche  through 
which  we  passed  just  out  of  Chartres  are  the 
home  of  the  Percheron  draft  horse  and  a  magni- 
ficent specimen  stood  proudly  near  the  depot  at 
Conde-sur-Huisne  with  an  equally  proud  groom 
astride  his  back. 

We  were  in   Sully's  country.     This   faithful 


58  Three  Weeks  in  France 

minister  of  Henry  IV  died  at  the  Chateau  de 
Villebon  in  1641,  having  served  his  king  and 
country  without  surrendering  his  beliefs.  At 
our  next  stop,  Nogent-le-Rotron,  he  is  buried  in 
the  Hotel  Dieu.  His  family  name  is  perpetuated 
in  Bethune  street  in  New  York. 

We  passed  two  soldiers  at  rest  and  two  women 
making  hay.  Thus  does  France  preserve  her 
economic  equilibrium.  It  does  not  require  pro- 
phetic vision  to  foresee  the  time  when  women  will 
govern  France  politically  even  as  she  controls 
her  commercially  to-day. 

Le  Mans,  our  next  stop,  is  fated  to  appear  in 
these  annals  several  times.  It  is  at  a  junction  of 
railroads  and  you  change  cars  for  almost  every- 
where at  Le  Mans.  This  fact,  however,  we 
learned  later. 

It  was  the  scene  of  some  pretty  hard  fighting 
between  the  Republicans  and  the  Vendeans.  It 
was  here  that  General  Marceau  of  Chartres  won 
his  spurs.  The  Vendeans  were  "agin  the  Revo- 
lution." Like  Rhode  Island  in  i860,  they  were 
afraid  that  the  rest  of  the  country  would  secede 
and  leave  them  to  pay  the  national  debt.  They 
increased  the  complications  of  an  already  badly 
tangled  Convention,  but  were  finally  subdued. 
This  town  was  besieged  twenty  times.  Here  the 
Germans  defeated  the  second  army  of  the  Loire 
in  1 87 1,  preventing  the  attempt  to  relieve  Paris. 


Mont  St.  Michel  59 

Here  was  born  Henry  II,  the  first  of  the  Plan- 
tagenets.     Of  course  it  has  a  cathedral. 

Much  of  this  part  of  Brittany  is  pasture  land 
and  not  so  tonsorially  cultivated  as  Normandy, 
whose  landscape  is  trimmed,  singed  and  pomaded. 
Nevertheless,  there  is  no  waste  ground  in  Brit- 
tany. The  hedges  are  not  planed  off  at  the  top  and 
some  of  the  blades  of  grass  are  longer  than  the 
others,  conditions  which  would  receive  imme- 
diate attention  in  the  neighborhood  of  Rouen. 

Sable,  our  next  stop,  has  a  chateau  and  cas- 
tle. There  are  quarries  of  black  marble  which 
may  have  given  the  town  its  name. 

The  name  did  not  look  right  to  us.  We  hauled 
out  our  time  table.  Heavens !  Sable  was  not  on 
the  run  from  Chartres  to  Vitre!  Fortunately 
the  front  compartment  of  our  car  was  occupied 
by  the  postal  service,  a  not  infrequent  device.  We 
appealed  to  the  mail  messenger.  He  was  inter- 
ested and  sympathetic.  He  told  us  just  what  to 
do  and  when  to  do  it,  and  we  found  we  would 
be  none  the  worse  for  our  carelessness  except 
for  the  loss  of  two  hours'  sleep. 

This  is  what  we  had  done.  We  had  taken  the 
Vitre  train  but  not  the  Vitre  coach.  In  our  zeal 
to  find  an  unoccupied  compartment  we  had  piled 
into  the  wrong  car.  Thereafter  we  not  only 
studied  the  signs  at  the  depots,  but  the  cards  on 
the  sides  of  the  cars. 


60  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  disembarked  at  Etriche-Chateauneuf  for 
an  hour,  to  await  the  return  train  to  Le  Mans. 
The  station  master  gave  us  a  long  document  re- 
lieving us  of  the  necessity  of  paying  return  fares 
to  Le  Mans.  He  was  very  kind  and  went  to  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  but  the  paper  was  never 
called  for  and  is  still  one  of  our  prized  souvenirs. 

The  station  master  asked  for  our  name.  We 
handed  it  out  letter  by  letter.  "Is  that  all?"  he 
inquired  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  as  we  paused. 
We  assured  him  that  we  had  no  other  syllables 
concealed  about  us  and  he  filled  in  our  passport 
properly. 

Instead  of  sleeping  at  Vitre  as  planned  we  ad- 
vanced our  lines  as  near  to  Pontorson  as  possible 
that  night.  That  meant  that  we  must  sleep  at 
Fougeres,  going  to  bed  quite  late  and  arising  very 
early  but  we  reached  Mont  St.  Michel  at  the  time 
originally  planned. 

Here  is  another  piece  of  advice.  It  will  not 
keep  you  out  of  trouble  entirely  but  it  will  assist 
and  will  make  some  trouble  for  others.  Always 
inquire  when  you  buy  a  railroad  ticket  whether 
there  is  a  change  of  cars.  Ask  the  porter  who 
carries  your  bags  the  same  question.  Lay  the 
matter  before  the  station  master  and  the  train 
guard.  Repeat  the  inquiry  to  each  passenger.  At 
every  stop  get  the  opinion  of  the  fruit  vender. 


Mont  St.  Michel  61 

You  will  usually  be  able  from  these  widely  diver- 
gent sources  to  form  a  correct  opinion. 

Our  blunder  was  more  than  offset  in  our  ex- 
perience by  the  kindness  and  courtesy  which  it 
revealed  among  postmen,  guards  and  fellow 
travelers. 

On  the  return  train  for  Le  Mans  our  com- 
panions were  a  prosperous  looking  gentleman 
with  a  red  ribbon  in  his  button  hole,  a  young  lady 
who  peered  anxiously  out  of  the  window  when- 
ever the  engine  whistled,  and  a  woman  with  a 
moustache  that  would  arouse  the  wildest  envy 
of  the  average  French  soldier.  This  matter  of 
female  beards  in  France  attracted  our  attention 
more  and  more.  Can  it  be  possible  that  by  some 
subtle  law  of  evolution,  masculine  hirsute  adorn- 
ment is  being  transferred  to  the  once  fair  sex 
along  with  other  male  prerogatives  ? 

At  Le  Mans  we  had  ample  time  for  a  good 
dinner  at  the  depot  dining  room,  after  which  I 
asked  a  gold-braided  official  to  assist  me  in  find- 
ing a  porter.  To  my  surprise  he  picked  up  the 
two  suit  cases  and  carried  them  to  our  car.  The 
usual  ten  cents  was  tendered  and  accepted. 

The  silence  which  we  once  commended  in 
French  railroad  stations  has  disappeared.  Ap- 
parently the  engineers  have  discovered  the  pos- 
sibility for  disturbing  the  peace  that  is  latent  in 
the  boilers,  and  like  the  motorman  with  the  new 


62  Three  Weeks  in  France 

gong,  are  utilizing  it  to  the  utmost.  Engines 
shriek  madly  through  the  train  sheds  with  no 
provocation  whatever. 

It  was  very  foggy  in  the  hills  out  of  Le  Mans. 
There  were  more  hedges  than  in  other  parts  of 
France. 

Our  train  left  Le  Mans  fifteen  minutes  late.  As 
there  were  only  eleven  minutes  between  trains  at 
Vitre  where  we  change  for  Fougeres  we  won- 
dered if  we  would  make  the  connection.  We 
still  had  much  to  learn  of  French  railways.  There 
is  never  any  need  to  hurry  or  worry.  At  Vitre, 
we  carried  our  luggage  across  the  platform,  while 
a  good-natured  station  master  ran  into  the  depot 
and  brought  us  out  two  tickets  to  Fougeres 
where  we  arrived  at  eleven  at  night.  We  drove 
in  the  hotel  bus  up  a  dimly  lighted  street,  through 
a  bunch  of  Sunday  revelers  to  the  Hotel  des  Voy- 
ageurs  where  we  were  shown  to  a  room  lighted 
by  a  lamp  and  candle,  and  left  a  call  for  six  in 
the  morning.  Two  rather  timid  boys  acted  as 
chambermaids  and  we  saw  no  other  employes  in 
the  hotel  during  our  brief  stay. 

Notwithstanding  the  meager  furniture  of  the 
inn  at  Fougeres,  everything  was  neat  and  clean 
and  wherever  there  was  room  a  vase  of  wild 
flowers  was  standing. 

This   is   a   shoe-making   town  but    from   the 


Mont  St.  Michel  63 

sounds  afoot  we  judged  that  most  of  its  citizens 
wore  wooden-soled  sabots. 

B.  argued  local  railroad  management  with  the 
station  master.  It  did  not  alter  the  methods  of 
the  road  and  afforded  her  excellent  French  prac- 
tice. She  could  not  see  why  we  should  be  forced 
to  change  cars  again  at  Pontorson  in  order  to 
reach  Mont  St.  Michel.  The  fact  that  the  rail- 
road becomes  a  tram  at  Pontorson  was  not  known 
to  us  at  the  time,  and  when  revealed  seemed  a 
good  and  sufficient  reason  for  the  transfer.  Any- 
how, she  had  the  last  word,  which  was  a  com- 
pound of  French,  English  and  gasp.  But  he  had 
the  last  smile,  so  perhaps  he  was  the  victor  after 
all. 

The  train  for  Pontorson  backed  in.  We 
walked  half  its  length  to  meet  it  and  accom- 
panied it  back  to  our  starting  point.  Then  it 
went  the  other  way  with  us  trailing.  Finally 
it  occurred  to  us  that  it  would  be  the  part  of  wis- 
dom to  let  the  train  settle  and  then  go  aboard. 
This  was  accomplished  gradually  with  our  com- 
partment door  at  our  original  starting  point. 

Once  aboard  B.  proceeded  to  put  away  her 
camera. 

"Why  are  you  doing  that?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  take  at  Pontorson." 

"Oh,  yes  there  is." 

"What?" 

"The  tram." 


64  Three  Weeks  in  France 

After  St.  Germain-en-Cogles,  a  stone-cutting 
village,  our  train  climbed  through  a  country  of 
grass  and  orchards  with  here  and  there  a  wheat 
field  and  with  hundreds  of  chestnut  trees  in 
bloom.  Wild  birds  were  singing  and  poppies, 
daisies  and  bluebells  marked  the  landscape  with 
the  tri-color  of  France. 

At  the  small  stations  flower  beds  occupied  the 
space  that  in  a  village  at  home  would  be  devoted 
to  returned  empties.  There  were  no  loafers  at 
the  depots.  They  were  all  in  the  army.  At  St. 
Brice  (also  en-Cogles)  we  dropped  our  French 
companion,  a  traveling  man  of  about  thirty,  with 
rosy  complexion  and  unmowed,  virgin  beard.  So 
many  beards  in  France  are  of  this  first  growth 
variety.  They  follow  the  same  general  land- 
scape plans  with  whiskers  as  with  trees.  A  group 
of  Frenchmen  suggests  nothing  so  much  as  a 
forest  of  inverted  Versailles  cedars  of  all  shades 
of  red,  black  and  brown. 

Our  ride  took  us  past  small  orchards  where 
young,  careless  trees  in  their  first  fruitage  nodded 
coquettishly  to  the  passing  train,  while  matronly 
old  ones  with  contours  made  less  graceful  but 
more  beautiful  by  long  continued  maternity  in- 
dulged in  stiffer  boughs. 

Farmers  either  with  picturesque  red  sashes  or 
carelessly  displayed  flannels  were  wielding  big 
clumsy  scythes.     The  speed  of  our  train,  about 


MONT    ST.    M  I  CI  I  I'M. 


Mont  St.  Michel  65 

eight  miles  per  hour,  made  it  difficult  to  deter- 
mine the  exact  nature  of  the  decoration. 

A  French  officer  makes  an  uncomfortable 
traveling  companion.  Habit  keeps  him  on  the 
march  and  he  tramps  up  and  down  the  corridor 
or  in  and  out  of  the  compartment  continually. 
Every  time  he  stumbles  over  your  feet  he  apolo- 
gizes and  salutes  and  you  feel  that  you  must  re- 
turn the  salute  or  risk  a  violation  of  the  military 
code. 

When  we  reached  Pontorson  we  took  a  car- 
riage at  two  francs  each  for  the  ride  to  Mont 
St.  Michel.  The  tram  started  ten  or  fifteen  min- 
utes later  and  arrived  at  the  abbey  about  the 
same  time  that  we  did.  The  drive  was  a  de- 
light. We  stopped  for  photographs  whenever 
we  wished  to.  We  hoped  to  see  the  mad,  rushing 
tide  and  were  prepared  to  stay  all  night  if  neces- 
sary. Later  we  discovered  that  the  tide  only 
rushes  in  March  and  September.  The  balance  of 
the  year  it  comes  in  like  a  fairly  swift  river. 

Almost  as  soon  as  we  left  Pontorson  the  spire 
of  St.  Michel  appeared  and  from  that  moment 
it  was  a  constantly  changing  and  always  entranc- 
ing picture.  Shrouded  in  haze  it  was  a  painter's 
delight  but  a  photographer's  despair. 

Each  turn  of  our  carriage  wheels  brought  new 
details  into  view  or  sharpened  the  outlines  of 
those  observed  before.    A  heavy  wind  was  blow- 


66  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ing  across  the  causeway,  increasing  the  difficulties 
of  photography.  The  canal  to  the  left  of  the 
road  is  the  line  between  Brittany  and  Normandy. 
This  canal  is  called  the  Couesnon.  It  formerly 
changed  its  bed  as  frequently  as  does  the  Mis- 
souri river.  Its  present  course  is  west  of  the 
Mount  and  hence  the  saying :  "The  Couesnon  by 
its  folly  has  placed  the  Mount  in  Normandy." 

This  soil  is  principally  quicksand  and  when 
covered  by  water  it  engulfs  man  or  horse  who 
enters  upon  its  surface. 

We  are  indebted  for  much  that  follows  to  a 
little  book  by  the  Marquis  of  Tombelaine,  a  de- 
voted student  of  the  Mount  who  lost  his  life  in  the 
sands  in  1892. 

The  town  of  St.  Michel  has  a  population  of 
two  hundred  and  thirty — mostly  in  the  restaurant 
or  souvenir  business. 

A  few  centuries  ago  the  forest  of  Scissy  cov- 
ered most  of  the  land  east  of  the  road.  In  709 
an  earthquake  occurred,  after  which  the  sea 
rushed  in  to  about  its  present  boundaries.  In 
1735  a  terrific  tornado  raised  part  of  the  sandy 
bed  and  exposed  a  number  of  oaks  as  well  as  some 
ruins  of  the  lost  village  of  Etienne. 

The  Abbey  was  founded  by  St.  Aubert  in  708, 
one  year  prior  to  the  earthquake.  Hugo  calls 
it  the  Pyramids  of  France  and  by  some  it  has 


Mont  St.  Michel  67 

been  nominated  for  that  greatly  crowded  emi- 
nence, the  eighth  wonder  of  the  world. 

It  is  a  hollow  rock  built  by  a  man  on  a  solid 
rock  left  by  nature  on  the  shore.  It  is  as  much 
a  fortress  as  an  abbey.  The  Benedictines  have 
been  in  charge  since  966.  The  rock  was  called 
Mt.  Belenus  by  the  Gauls.  Later  the  name  was 
transferred  to  the  adjacent  rock  and  transformed 
into  Tombelaine. 

In  the  sixth  century  some  hermits  moved  onto 
the  rock  and  provisions  were  sent  to  them  on  a 
donkey's  back.  A  wolf  ate  the  donkey,  was  con- 
verted by  the  monks  and  made  a  donkey  of  him- 
self and  carried  the  burdens. 

St.  Michael  ordered  Aubert  to  build  on  the 
rock.  It  looked  like  a  pretty  large  order.  After 
tamping  around  awhile  without  finding  a  good 
foundation,  Aubert  waited.  A  second  time  St. 
Michael  appeared.  Still  Aubert  procrastinated. 
Then  St.  Michael  came  and  put  his  thumb  on  the 
back  of  Aubert's  head  and  pushed.  Aubert  was 
deeply  impressed.  His  skull  exhibited  in  the 
church  of  St.  Gervais  at  Avranches  has  a  hole 
in  it  where  St.  Michael's  thumb  was  placed. 
Either  Michael  was  in  a  militant  mood  or  Au- 
bert's head  must  have  been  softer  than  we  like 
to  believe  it. 

Anyhow,  he  got  busy.  A  heavy  dew  formed 
one  night  over  all  of  the  rock  except  the  site  for 


68  Three  Weeks  in  France 

the  building.  Another  hint  to  Aubert  that  his 
work  would  soon  be  overdue  again.  He  started 
the  abbey  as  outlined. 

During  the  Norman  raids  fugitives  fled  to  the 
rock  and  built  the  town. 

In  1017  Abbot  Hildebert  II  began  the  present 
structure.  Work  was  carried  on  with  a  unity  of 
plan  possible  only  to  a  religious  community.  By 
1080  they  had  started  the  nave.  After  many 
other  setbacks,  in  1203  the  town  and  much  of  the 
abbey  was  burned.  It  must  have  resembled  a 
fire  in  a  marble-yard.  Work  necessarily  pro- 
gressed slowly.  A  glance  at  the  surroundings 
makes  it  difficult  to  understand  how  they  worked 
at  all.  In  12 12- 18  the  Salle  des  Hotes  and  Salle 
des  Chevaliers  were  completed.  In  1228  the 
cloister  was  finished.  And  so  step  by  step  this 
gigantic  task  progressed. 

It  was  necessary  to  fortify  so  rich  an  abbey. 
The  English  besieged  it  for  years  in  the  four- 
teenth and  fifteenth  centuries  but  never  took  it. 
In  1419  Mont  St.  Michel  was  the  only  spot  in 
Normandy  not  held  by  the  English.  They  nearly 
ruined  it  in  the  Hundred  Years  War.  Two  Eng- 
lish cannon  are  to  the  right  of  the  entrance  of 
the  fortress,  relics  of  the  assault  in  1434.  The 
Huguenots  took  a  whack  at  it  in  1591  and  fell 
back  to  rub  their  bruises.  It  was  used  as  a  prison 
during  the  Revolution  and  called  Mont  Libre! 


Mont  St.  Michel  69 

Napoleon  III  discontinued  this  use  of  it  in  1863 
and  began  its  restoration  in  1865. 

Whatever  else  may  be  said  regarding  Napoleon 
III,  France  is  filled  with  monuments  to  his  love 
for  the  beautiful  old  structures  of  his  adored 
country. 

The  highest  spire  of  Mont  St.  Michel  is 
modern.  It  is  the  third  one  and  doubtless  there 
will  be  others.  It  affords  a  tempting  target  for 
the  lightning  which  has  destroyed  it  twice. 

The  most  prominent  feature  of  the  town  is 
the  Hotel  Poulard.  One  would  think  that  the 
Poulard  family  believes  that  men  toiled  through 
the  ages,  gnawed  at  the  living  rock,  fought,  bled, 
prayed  and  died  to  give  a  suitable  background  for 
Mother  Poulard's  famous  chicken  and  more 
famous  omelette. 

I  do  not  wish  to  pose  as  an  iconoclast  or  dis- 
parage the  Poulard  cuisine.  It  is  quite  as  good  as 
that  of  the  average  French  hotel,  and  no  better. 
Yet  so  well  has  it  been  advertised  that  every  one 
eats  an  omelette  as  a  sort  of  rite  when  in  Mont 
St.  Michel. 

B.  almost  hurt  their  feelings  when  out  of 
politeness  she  asked  if  Mme.  Poulet  was  to  be 
seen. 

"Poulet,  madame?  You  mean  Poulard,  doubt- 
less?" 


jo  Three  Weeks  in  France 

And  it  was  a  stupid  blunder,  for  Mme.  Poulard 
is  no  chicken. 

After  watching  the  cheerful  blaze  from  the 
roaring  fire  of  the  kitchen  whose  fireplace  is 
blasted  from  the  solid  rock,  we  walked  up  the 
little  street  to  the  House  of  Bertrand  du  Guesclin 
and  his  first  wife,  Tiphaine  Raguenel  of  Dinan. 
She  was  the  brains  of  the  family,  he  was  the 
biceps,  a  good  combination  when  each  recognizes 
his  or  her  limitations. 

Bertrand  was  born  in  the  days  of  Philip  of 
Valois  who  was  the  sixth  Philip  that  fate  gave  to 
France.  Bertrand  was  the  oldest  and  toughest 
of  a  family  of  three  children,  a  terror  to  the 
neighbors  and  a  grief  to  his  parents.  He  com- 
menced to  joust  as  soon  as  he  left  the  nursery 
and  fought  with  every  boy  in  the  neighborhood. 

He  was  as  generous  with  his  clothes  as  with 
his  blows  and  frequently  stripped  himself  to  dress 
a  needy  companion.  The  clothes  probably  inter- 
fered with  his  fighting,  anyhow. 

About  the  time  that  his  domestic  standing  had 
reached  its  lowest  ebb,  a  soothsayer  happened 
along  and  foretold  that  he  would  one  day  be  a 
great  warrior.     Marvelous  prescience ! 

Thereafter  his  parents  took  more  notice  of 
him. 

When  he  was  twelve  the  nobility  held  a  great 
tournament  at   Rennes,   the   fourteenth   century 


Mont  St.  Michel  71 

forerunner  of  joy-riding  as  a  means  for  killing 
off  the  idle  rich.  Bertrand  borrowed  a  suit  of 
armor  from  one  of  the  mail  carriers  and  de- 
horsed  every  opponent  but  lowered  his  lance  be- 
fore his  father. 

Some  one  succeeded  in  unhelmeting  the  lad  and 
disclosed  his  identity.  Papa  du  Guesclin's  heart 
was  filled  with  pride  and  gratitude;  pride  that 
Bertrand  had  vanquished  all  the  other  entries 
and  gratitude  that  he  had  spared  his  father. 

The  doting  parent  at  once  hired  trainers  for 
the  boy,  allowed  him  to  put  up  a  punching  bag 
in  the  barn  and  proudly  watched  him  through  a 
knot-hole. 

Bertrand  became  a  soldier  first  under  John, 
Duke  of  Brittany,  and  later  with  the  Count  of 
Blois.  He  distinguished  himself  at  the  siege  of 
Rennes  in  1342.  By  135 1  he  was  the  French- 
man's hope  and  "Notre  Dame  du  Guesclin"  was 
a  war  cry  that  frightened  an  Englishman  worse 
than  does  a  lady  aspirant  for  the  suffrage  plus 
a  brick  nowadays. 

We  would  like  to  give  Bertrand's  biography 
by  rounds  but  time  forbids.  The  fight  which 
Tiphaine  witnessed  was  at  Dinan.  Bertrand  got 
the  decision  and  with  it,  Tiphaine.  He  died  a 
High  Constable  of  France  in  1378. 

In  this  little  house  on  Main  street  in  St.  Michel, 
Tiphaine   cast   horoscopes   in   her   star    foundry 


72  Three  Weeks  in  France 

while  Bertrand  was  bringing  new  constellations 
within  the  range  of  vision  of  every  Englishman 
whom  he  thumped  on  the  head.  She  planned  his 
campaigns  and  contributed  greatly  to  his  success 
while  he  by  sticking  to  the  seat  of  his  steam 
roller  managed  to  hold  office  during  most  of  his 
life. 

We  secured  a  young  woman  guide  who  led 
us  up  one  hundred  and  twenty-seven  steps  to 
the  door  of  the  Musee  and  turned  us  over  to  a 
soldier.  Of  course,  she  expected  and  received  a 
franc  for  her  entirely  superfluous  services.  We 
would  have  found  the  Musee,  and  the  soldier 
would  have  found  us,  without  assistance. 

The  Musee  is  interesting,  being  filled  chiefly 
with  works  left  by  monks.  They  give  you  an 
idea  of  the  slow  centuries  that  have  rolled  by 
while  these  patient  men  toiled  at  labor  and  at 
prayer.  The  museum  dates  from  1888  and  con- 
tains, beside  the  fruits  of  holy  labors,  many  his- 
torical objects  found  on  the  Mount  or  uncovered 
by  the  sands.  It  has  also  a  rich  collection  of  old 
weapons  and  ancient  watches.  Its  pride,  however, 
is  its  curious  specimens  of  ancient  watch  cocks, 
more  than  twenty-five  thousand  in  number. 

It  is  customary  to  refer  to  obsolete  affairs  like 
watch  cocks  and  leave  the  research  work  to  the 
reader.  This  is  a  lazy  habit  and  breaks  the  con- 
tinuity of  the  narrative.    Besides,  it  turns  the  at- 


Mont  St.  Michel  73 

tention  from  the  book  in  hand  to  the  Encyclopae- 
dia, and  the  Encyclopaedia  may  prove  so  much 
more  interesting  as  to  be  installed  in  place  of  the 
travel  book  in  the  reader's  affections.  Therefore, 
we  will  transfer  the  information  to  these  pages 
and  tell  you  all  about  watch  cocks  or  "coqs"  as 
the  French  spell  them. 

They  do  not  exist  now  except  as  curios  but 
from  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century  until  after 
the  Restoration  in  France,  every  watch  had  one 
of  these  hand-chiseled  pieces  of  metal  which  pro- 
tected the  balance  wheel  suspended  from  it.  The 
name  cock  is  supposed  to  be  a  corruption  of  the 
German  word  kloben  (hook).  If  so,  it  shows 
how  unrecognizably  some  things  are  corrupted  in 
France. 

The  great  care  exercised  in  decorating  these 
non-essential  accessories  is  explained  by  the  fact 
that  the  early  watch  was  not  so  much  a  chrono- 
meter as  it  was  a  piece  of  jewelry.  The  cock 
was  carved  with  an  engraving  tool  on  a  plate  of 
copper,  chiseled  in  open  work  to  allow  the  move- 
ment of  the  balance  to  be  seen.  It  was  then  en- 
graved with  extraordinary  skill  by  special  artists. 
Sometimes  the  work  on  this  part  of  the  watch 
would  cost  several  hundred  francs. 

There  are  in  the  museum  some  mosaics  in  straw 
made  by  priests  or  prisoners  and  they  tell  a 
thrilling  story  of  despairing  patience.    There  are 


74  Three  Weeks  in  France 


also  many  of  those  eloquent  arguments  against 
heresy  in  the  shape  of  iron  boots  and  spiked  col- 
lars, the  latter  so  far  ahead  of  the  modern  saw- 
edged  linen  collar  as  to  fill  the  bosom  of  a  laun- 
dress with  wildest  envy. 

The  Chamber  of  Horrors  portion  of  the  mu- 
seum is  a  wax-works  exhibit  that  is  out  of  place 
in  such  a  setting.  It  certainly  gives  vivid  pictures 
of  historic  and  legendary  events,  and  the  lighting 
and  grouping  of  the  different  scenes  are  worthy 
of  Belasco,  but  it  is  a  sublimated  Mrs.  Jarley's 
just  the  same. 

We  were  first  shown  a  realistic  cyclorama  of  a 
thirteenth  century  battle  on  the  sands.  They  do 
not  forget  to  add  in  the  foreground  the  head  of 
a  man  sinking  into  the  quicksands. 

The  various  historical  scenes  and  personages 
are  in  separate  rooms  or  cells,  adequately  lighted 
and  realistically  posed.  The  bust  of  St.  Aubert 
shows  the  parchment  skin,  protruding  bones  and 
staring  eyes  of  the  ascetic.  Other  abbots  are 
there  and  one  room  is  given  to  Bertrand  du  Gues- 
clin  and  Tiphaine. 

The  visit  of  Louis  XI  to  the  Mount  is  com- 
memorated by  a  group,  the  most  striking  figure 
of  which  is  the  archer  peering  out  of  the  narrow 
window. 

All  was  fish  that  came  into  this  ecclesiastical 
net,  so  you  are  not  surprised  by  the  figure  of  the 


AX    OLD    SKA    CHKST— MONT    ST.    MICHEL 


Mont  St.  Michel  75 

sculptor  prisoner  Gaultier  whose  talents  were 
used  for  the  decoration  of  the  abbey.  Three 
times  he  threw  himself  from  his  platform  in  at- 
tempts at  suicide.    The  third  time,  he  succeeded. 

We  next  passed  through  a  bit  of  outdoors 
where  stone  cannon  balls  were  piled  and  where 
two  domesticated  tortoises  formed  a  sluggish  con- 
trast to  a  family  of  kittens  playing  around  them. 

In  the  next  room  is  shown  some  ancient  pirate 
coffers.  One  was  dragged  into  the  light  for 
photographic  purposes.  A  single  turn  of  the  key 
shot  eleven  bolts  into  place. 

On  the  walls  were  hung  many  old  weapons  and 
the  sword  of  some  paladin,  "Never  drawn  with- 
out reason  nor  returned  without  glory." 

We  crossed  the  platform  with  its  figure  of  St. 
Christopher,  patron  saint  of  chauffeurs,  and  en- 
tered the  Prisoners'  Gallery.  Again  we  found 
well  arranged  and  lighted  stage  effects  but  savor- 
ing even  more  of  a  wax-works  exhibition  than 
the  room  we  had  just  left. 

The  first  is  the  cell  of  Barbes,  a  West  Indian, 
imprisoned  from  1839  to  1854.  He  died  in  Hol- 
land in  1856  and  is  buried  at  The  Hague.  He 
was  a  political  prisoner.  Later  we  saw  a  statue 
of  him  at  Carcassonne. 

Blanqui  was  another  victim  of  his  own  insur- 
rectionary ideas.  He  is  represented  as  sitting  in 
his  cell. 


y6  Three  Weeks  in  France 

Bernard  and  Raspail,  also  prisoners  dating 
from  the  troubled  period  of  the  second  empire, 
occupied  the  next  two  cells. 

Then  we  walked  right  into  the  crowning  horror, 
Colombat  depicted  as  swinging  from  a  rope  in  a 
well  whose  bottom  was  strewn  with  skeletons. 
In  attempting  to  escape  he  lowered  himself  into 
this  forgotten  oubliette,  thinking  it  led  to  free- 
dom. We  were  glad  to  learn  that  this  plucky- 
prisoner  later  did  escape  and  descended  from  the 
lower  tower  by  a  rope.  He  was  the  only  prisoner 
who  ever  got  away  from  Mont  St.  Michel  with- 
out royal  sanction. 

By  this  time  our  nerves  were  in  condition  to 
stand  the  cell  of  Dubourg,  a  victim  of  the  wrath 
of  Louis  XV.  He  died  in  prison,  and  his  body 
was  found  partly  eaten  by  rats.  A  very  success- 
ful attempt  has  been  made  to  reproduce  his  ap- 
pearance at  the  time. 

We  were  glad  to  get  into  the  sunlight  again 
and  thence  into  the  room  where  they  keep  the 
spectograph.  This  instrument  throws  on  a  pol- 
ished surface  a  moving  picture  of  any  desired 
object  within  several  miles  of  the  Abbey.  It  was 
marvellous  to  watch  the  shell  gatherers  a  mile 
away  and  then  focus  it  on  the  horses  and  car- 
riages at  the  entrance  to  the  town.  Every  stamp 
of  the  horses'  feet,  every  switch  of  their  tails  was 
repeated  on  a  surface  a  yard  in  diameter.     The 


Mont  St.  Michel  yy 

spectograph  is  useful  in  times  of  war  to  enable 
one  behind  walls  to  observe  the  actions  of  the 
enemy.    It  is  a  most  fascinating  thing  to  watch. 

We  were  finally  shown  into  the  salesroom  of 
the  museum  where  are  exhibited  countless 
articles  of  jewelry  made  from  old  watch  cocks. 
After  investing  in  one  or  two  souvenirs  we  ate 
lunch  at  the  Cafe  Poulard  and  walked  entirely 
around  the  rock  over  sand  which  is  firm  when 
dry  but  which  when  wet  engulfs  its  victims  and 
leaves  no  sign.  Fortunately  tides  run  on  sched- 
ule time  and  the  periods  when  it  is  safe  to  cir- 
cumnavigate the  rock  are  well  known.  It  was 
an  impressive  sight,  this  dull-gray,  damp  Sahara 
stretching  for  miles  all  about  us.  The  sand,  dry- 
ing in  irregular  splotches  had  the  appearance  of 
being  flecked  with  cloud  shadows.  We  encoun- 
tered three  Americans  who  were  invading 
France  without  a  word  of  French  in  the  whole 
party.  Their  "good-bye,  folks"  at  parting 
sounded  like  music  in  our  ears  after  several 
days  of  "bon  voyage." 

Again  we  climbed  the  narrow  street  of  the 
town,  this  time  bound  for  the  Abbey.  When  we 
attained  the  top  we  felt  that  whispered  orisons 
would  reach  the  throne,  so  near  did  we  seem  to 
heaven.  We  waited  for  a  long  time  for  a  guide 
through  the  building,  writing  post  cards  the 
while.     The  guides  are  all  men  of  venerable  ap- 


yS  Three  Weeks  in  France 

pearance,  usually  with  white  mustaches  and 
imperials. 

We  registered  our  names  and  likewise  our  pro- 
tests against  the  pens  provided  for  visitors. 
Finally  a  guide  appeared  and  we  trailed  along  in 
his  wake. 

Most  of  the  interior  is  glaringly  new,  thanks 
to  the  activity  of  the  restorers.  Stone  masons 
were  working  in  some  of  the  rooms. 

We  paused  on  the  Grand  Terrace  and  looked 
at  the  relief  map  of  the  sands  below  us.  Our 
guide  prattled  French  with  the  exquisite  modula- 
tion and  expression  of  a  graphophone.  A  plan 
of  the  original  Abbey — the  one  outlined  in  dew — 
is  marked  in  red  stone  in  the  floor.  The  walls 
are  new,  the  bas  reliefs  are  old.  There  are  fools' 
names  scribbled  everywhere.  The  cloister  is  high 
in  air  and  dates  from  1225.  Each  pair  of  its 
two  hundred  and  twenty  tiny  rose-colored  gran- 
ite columns  was  a  labor  of  love  sculptured  by  a 
monk  in  his  cell.  This  explains  the  variety  and 
individuality  of  the  designs.  The  guide  was  very 
kind  and  permitted  free  use  of  the  camera,  but 
while  B.  was  photographing  I  gleaned  very  little 
information. 

Here  and  there  as  we  climbed  up  and  down,  a 
bit  of  natural  rock  peeped  through  the  masonry 
like  a  rugged  elbow  through  a  torn  coat.     This 


Mont  St.  Michel  79 

part  of  the  Abbey,  its  foundation,  defies  both  de- 
stroyer and  restorer. 

We  visited  some  of  the  prison  cells  and  peered 
through  a  slit  in  the  sixteen  foot  walls.  Then 
we  were  shown  the  big  wheel  used  for  raising 
supplies  into  the  Abbey.  St.  Michael  after  mark- 
ing the  site  of  the  Abbey  ran  out  of  water,  and 
such  as  there  is  on  the  rock  is  in  a  reservoir  and 
not  real  fresh.    Do  not  drink  it. 

The  Crypt  of  the  Great  Pillars  rests  on  twenty 
immense  pillars  based  on  the  rock  and  forming 
the  real  foundation  of  the  Abbey. 

In  the  Refectory  are  two  gigantic  fireplaces. 
The  Knights'  Hall  was  built  about  1220  and  so 
was  the  big  assembly  room.  Beneath  it  and  con- 
nected by  a  staircase  is  the  cellar  or  storeroom. 

There  are  many,  many  more  rooms  but  we 
would  advise  you  to  buy  the  book  by  Tombelaine, 
printed  in  both  French  and  English,  and  sold  at 
the  souvenir  stores.  The  stores  that  have  only 
the  French  editions  will  insist  that  there  are  no 
English  copies  but  be  not  deceived.     There  are. 

After  all,  it  is  the  exterior  of  the  Abbey  that 
thrills.  Within,  it  has  been  restored  to  death. 
The  process  is  doubtless  essential,  and  it  will  not 
take  more  than  a  century  or  two  to  soften  the 
lines  of  the  interior  into  harmony  with  the  rest. 
Right  now  it  is  neither  young  nor  old,  a  be- 
rouged  ruin. 


80  Three  Weeks  in  France 

After  our  visit  was  finished  there  was  the 
usual  hurried  whispered  consultation  as  to  the 
size  of  the  tips.  The  French  handed  out  coppers, 
the  English  ten  sou  pieces  while  the  sole  repre- 
sentative of  America,  who  had  not  understood  a 
word  that  was  told  him,  again  shamed  his  country 
with  a  whole  franc.  We  paid  in  proportion  to 
what  we  had  not  comprehended. 

Again  outside  the  walls  we  found  that  we 
could  share  a  motor  car  with  another  couple  and 
return  to  Pontorson  immediately  and  for  a  trifle 
less  than  the  tram  tariff.  As  this  would  enable 
us  to  take  our  choice  of  seats  on  the  train  to  Le 
Mans  we  availed  ourselves  of  the  opportunity 
and  soon  were  speeding  away  with  many  admir- 
ing looks  backward  at  Mont  St.  Michel. 

It  is  not  safe  to  talk  to  a  French  chauffeur. 
He  is  liable  to  drop  everything  else  in  replying 
and  the  effect  of  rushing  along  a  country  road 
at  a  thirty  mile  an  hour  gait  with  a  gesticulating 
chauffeur  narrating  local  history  is  disquieting. 

Instead  of  a  horn,  many  chauffeurs  use 
whistles.  This  is  because  of  the  difficulty  of  dis- 
tinguishing between  the  very  loudest  horns  and 
a  Frenchman  or  woman  blowing  his  or  her  nose. 
In  cultivating  a  decided  nasal  accent  the  French 
have  developed  the  possibilities  of  the  nose  as 
a  musical  instrument  to  the  most  amazing  extent. 
Young  and  tender  maidens  will  place  fine  lace 


VILLAf.K    STRKKT— MONT   ST.    MK'UKL 


Mont  St.  Michel  81 

handkerchiefs  to  delicately  chiseled  noses  and  the 
resultant  blast  is  astonishing. 

The  tram  fare  from  Pontorson  to  the  Mont  is 
twenty-three  cents.  Our  motor  cost  us  twenty 
cents  each.  The  carriage  driver  charged  us  forty 
cents  apiece.  The  slower,  the  higher.  Still  we 
would  advise  the  use  of  a  carriage  in  one  direc- 
tion, especially  if  you  have  a  kodak. 


82  Vitre 


V 

Vitre 


0T  Fbugeres  we  had  an  hour  and  invested 
in  a  box  lunch.  It  included  roast  beef, 
I     ham,  bread,  cheese,  cakes,  nuts  and  a 

bottle  of  water  (by  request)  for  forty- 
five  cents. 

Our  three  Americans  who  had  rejoined  us 
temporarily  had  each  a  glass  of  wine  and  a  plate 
of  cakes,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  feast  the 
shortest  one  consulted  a  pocket  vocabulary  and 
said  gravely,  "Combine?" 

We  shared  in  the  fun  they  had  in  settling  the 
bill.  Finally,  they  adopted  the  dangerous  but 
prevalent  custom  among  American  tourists  of 
holding  a  palm  full  of  small  coins  in  front  of  the 
waitress  and  saying  "Help  yourself."  Is  it  any 
wonder  that  our  coming  is  hailed  with  joy  by 
the  needy  of  foreign  climes?  Even  then  she  only 
took  twenty-eight  cents,  a  very  modest  over- 
charge for  the  refreshment  provided — not  over 
one  hundred  per  cent. 

At  Vitre  our  room  was  floored  with  oak  boards 


Vitre  83 

eight  inches  wide  and  polished  with  age.  It  was 
two  blocks  from  the  hotel  to  the  nearest  bathing 
establishment,  whose  proprietress  conducts  a 
laundry  in  connection  therewith.  We  were  not 
sure  of  the  price  of  baths  but  thirty  cents  each 
must  have  included  a  tip  judging  from  the 
salaams  bestowed  upon  us. 

Vitre  was  the  first  Protestant  town  in  which 
we  stopped  overnight.  It  was  also  the  smallest 
town  so  distinguished  by  us. 

It  has  only  about  ten  thousand  people  but  is 
as  neat  and  clean  as  any  place  can  be  that  has 
surface  sewers  and  deposits  its  garbage  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  to  await  the  call  of  the  scav- 
enger. 

It  was  a  walled  town  at  one  time  and  our  hotel 
window  looked  out  on  a  portion  of  the  old  wall. 
In  the  early  morning  we  watched  some  farmers 
who  had  brought  to  town  a  big  frightened  bull 
tied  in  a  cart.  They  drove  to  the  municipal  scales 
and  thence  to  the  shipping  yards. 

A  musical  peddler  with  a  wooden  leg  came 
singing  his  wares  gayly  down  the  boulevard.  His 
stock  consisted  of  half  a  dozen  skinned  rabbits, 
doubtless  poached  from  some  one's  preserves  in 
the  earlier  morning.  He  made  no  sale  in  our 
neighborhood,  but  bless  you !  he  did  not  seem  to 
care.  He  did  not  sing  to  sell  his  wares  but 
seemed  rather  to  use  his  vocation  as  an  excuse  for 


84  Three  Weeks  in  France 

pouring  forth  his  joy  in  song.  What  had  he  to 
sing  for?  Heaven  only  knows,  but  thank  God 
that  he  had  it. 

The  morning  Paris  journal  printed  dispatches 
from  Belgium,  Switzerland  and  Alsace-Lorraine, 
for  the  French  still  dream  of  the  day  when  they 
will  re-establish  their  borders  beyond  that  prov- 
ince and  rarely  include  it  when  referring  to  Ger- 
many. 

Dogs  seem  almost  as  favored  in  this  part  of 
France  as  in  Constantinople.  They  lie  in  the 
sunniest  spots  and  foregather  on  the  most  popu- 
lous corners.  We  counted  fourteen  dogs  in  one 
short  block  at  Vitre. 

Their  especial  habitat,  however,  is  Mont  St. 
Michel.  It  is  doubtful  whether  the  Mont  could 
have  guarded  against  the  surprises  of  the  English 
in  the  fifteenth  century  but  for  the  vigilance  of 
the  dogs. 

This  led  to  a  decree  issued  in  1475  by  Louis 
XI  granting  an  annuity  of  twenty- four  pounds, 
Tours  weight,  for  their  keep.  The  act  reads  in 
part: 

"From  the  earliest  times  it  has  been  customary 
to  have  and  nourish  at  the  said  place,  a  certain 
number  of  great  dogs,  which  are  tied  up  by  day 
and  at  night  brought  outside  the  enclosure  to 
keep  watch  till  morning." 

We  took  a  very  roundabout  way  to  the  rue 


Vitre  85 

Poterie,  one  of  the  quaint  arcaded  streets  of 
Vitre,  suggesting  according  to  Baedeker,  the 
Rows  of  Chester.  This  is  the  only  instance  that 
we  recall  of  Baedeker  giving  way  to  a  flight  of 
the  imagination,  and  it  is  a  very  wild  flight. 

A  more  direct  route  from  the  depot  to  the  rue 
Poterie  would  be  straight  out  the  rue  Garengeot. 
A  short  block  will  bring  you  to  what  we  reached 
only  after  a  walk  of  half  a  mile.  There  we  saw 
old  houses  tottering  and  leaning  over  like  disso- 
lute topers,  their  lower  stories  arcaded  but  not  at 
all  suggesting  beautiful  Chester. 

We  drove  out  to  the  Chateau  des  Rochers 
where  once  lived  Mine,  de  Sevigne  whose 
sprightly  letters  give  us  the  best  idea  that  we  have 
of  seventeenth  century  manners. 

Although  left  a  charming  widow  at  the  age  of 
twenty-five  she  never  remarried  but  devoted 
herself  to  the  rearing  of  her  son  and  daughter. 
The  published  letters  were  written  to  the  latter 
and  abound  in  delightful  gossip,  witty  anecdote 
and  keenly  discriminating  comment  on  the  men 
and  women  around  her.  By  turns  she  was  a 
noted  beauty,  a  brilliant  wit,  a  religious  devotee 
and  a  woman  of  business,  struggling  to  make 
her  income  meet  the  demands  of  an  extravagant 
son.    The  letters  fill  fourteen  large  volumes. 

When  disposed  to  grumble  at  the  inconven- 
iences of  modern  hotels  it  is  a  great  consolation 


86  Three  Weeks  in  France 

to  read  how  this  great  lady  often  had  to  lie 
on  straw  in  inns  when  traveling  and  a  room  in 
which  she  could  undress  was  a  luxury.  In  those 
days  travelers  carried  their  own  knives,  the  land- 
lord furnishing  plates,  spoons  and  forks.  This 
latter  condition  obtained  in  parts  of  France 
within  the  last  forty  years,  as  is  witnessed  by  R. 
L.  S.  in  his  trip  through  the  Cevennes  mountains 
with  Modestine. 

The  Chateau  is  surrounded  by  an  immense 
park,  part  of  it  highly  cultivated  but  most  of  it 
in  a  state  of  nature.  It  forms  a  fitting  setting 
for  the  turrets,  spires  and  chimneys  of  the  grand 
old  residence. 

We  were  first  admitted  to  the  chapel  built  in 
1 67 1  by  an  uncle  of  Mine,  de  Sevigne,  the  Abbe 
of  Livre.  Its  furnishings  are  exactly  as  described 
in  her  letters,  with  the  original  crucifix  and  the 
large  painting  of  the  Virgin  with  the  words  "Sole 
Deo"  above  it. 

From  thence  we  were  conducted  by  a  sweet- 
voiced  woman  to  that  part  of  the  chateau  once 
tenanted  by  its  illustrious  owner.  We  stood  in 
her  bedroom  and  saw  the  bed  in  which  she  slept 
and  by  the  north  window  the  desk  where  she 
wrote  most  of  her  charming,  sparkling  letters. 
Her  portrait  by  Mignard  shows  a  proud,  viva- 
cious beauty  with  the  plump  hands  so  character- 
istic of  French  women  to  this  day.     The  furni- 


Vitre  87 

ture  is  of  oak  and  badly  worm-eaten.  The  old 
parquetry  floor  is  of  the  same  material. 

The  property  is  occupied  all  the  year  round  by 
Count  des  Netumiere  and  family.  We  walked 
out  into  the  garden  with  its  four  big  cedars.  An 
old  sun  dial  told  us  the  hour  as  faithfully  as  it 
did  the  laughing  beauty  who  has  been  dust  for 
over  two  centuries.  There  were  orange  trees 
in  boxes  and  blooming.  They  had  echo  stones, 
on  one  of  which  you  stand  while  the  party  of 
the  second  part  takes  his  position  on  the  other. 
When  one  shouts  the  other  hears  an  echo.  It  is 
true  that  you  can  hear  the  same  echo  without 
standing  on  the  stone,  but  the  spots  marked  give 
the  sharpest  responses. 

We  had  asked  in  vain  for  an  opportunity  to 
photograph  the  big  cedars.  At  a  certain  point 
behind  some  bushes  our  conductress  said  "Here 
we  are  hidden,"  and  told  us  we  might  attempt  a 
picture  of  the  chateau.  We  thanked  her  and 
snapped  one  of  the  big  trees.  We  had  already 
taken  several  pictures  of  the  chateau.  Then  we 
sat  on  the  grass  and  changed  films  amid  a  perfect 
chorus  of  wild  birds. 

Our  courteous  old  driver  passed  a  pedestrian 
on  the  road  coming  out  to  the  chateau.  "Allez- 
vous  loin?"  (Are  you  going  far?)  he  asked, 
pointing  to  the  seat  besides  him.     The  man  said 


88  Three  Weeks  in  France 

"No,"  and  the  incident  was  closed,  but  it  was 
characteristic  and  pleasing. 

We  inquired  the  history  of  a  tumble-down 
stable  which  had  a  stump  of  a  steeple  surmounted 
by  a  cross.  We  learned  that  it  was  a  leper's 
chapel  one  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago  and  that 
the  property  across  the  road  was  the  hospital  and 
farm.  The  driver  hastened  to  assure  us  that  it 
had  been  a  long  time  since  there  were  any  lepers 
in  France. 

After  luncheon  in  Vitre  we  again  visited  the 
rue  Poterie  which  by  this  time  had  picked  up  its 
garbage  and  was  a  little  more  picturesque. 

Thence  we  walked  through  back  streets  past  a 
very  inhospitable  dog,  which,  fortunately  for  us, 
was  securely  chained,  and  finally  reached  the  river 
where  were  assembled  the  usual  washerwomen 
beating  buttons  from  shirts.  Like  death,  the 
French  laundress  loves  a  shining  mark  and  a 
bright  pearl  button  awakens  all  her  energies. 
She  places  it  carefully  on  a  flat  rock,  takes  a  stone 
in  her  right  hand  and  cracks  the  button  as  if  it 
were  a  nut.  We  no  longer  button  our  garments. 
We  lace  them  up. 

Walking  in  Vitre  is  tiring  because  it  is  up-hill 
in  every  direction.  It  is  the  only  town  in  the 
world  where  you  seem  to  walk  up-hill  most  of  the 
way  to  any  given  point,  and  up-hill  most  of  the 
way  back. 


Ot'TSTDE   THE   RAMPARTS— VITRE 


Vitre  89 

Our  laundry  was  done  for  us  in  fifteen  hours 
at  about  two-thirds  United  States  prices  and  no 
extra  charge   for  amputating  the  buttons. 

We  had  a  not  unusual  experience  when  leav- 
ing the  hotel.  We  could  not  find  the  chamber- 
maid to  give  her  a  tip.  And  that  reminds  me  that 
whenever  you  wander  from  the  track  of  the  tour- 
ist, tips  are  not  sought  but  are  accepted  with  be- 
coming gratitude.  That  fact  seems  to  answer 
the  question,  "Whose  is  the  fault?" 


go  Le  Mans  and  Tours 


VI 

Le  Mans  and  Tours 


nHE  corridor  in  a  continental  passenger 
coach  is  its  most  popular  part.  There 
I     the  children  play,  the  smokers  smoke, 

and  the  sight-seers  lean  from  the  win- 
dows. Of  course  there  are  smoking  compart- 
ments, but  the  man  who  prefers  to  occupy  a  non- 
smoking room,  may  smoke  in  the  corridors. 
When  circumstances  forced  us  to  invade  the  pre- 
cincts of  My  Lady  Nicotine,  Frenchmen  of  all 
conditions  invariably  would  inquire  if  smoking 
was  disagreeable  to  B. 

The  fruit  trees  of  Brittany  are  heavy  with 
apples.  Peaches  are  being  sold  at  the  stations 
but  they  are  of  that  emerald  hue  so  fatal  to 
Johnny  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue.  Many  vege- 
table gardens  had  their  plants  protected  by  huge 
glass  jars. 

Everywhere  in  France  we  found  evidence  of 
that  marvelous  conservation  of  natural  resources 
that  has  made  France — I  almost  said,  the  eighth 
wonder  of  the  world.     When  you  consider  the 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  91 

millions  of  dollars  that  are  gleaned  annually  from 
an  arable  area  smaller  than  Texas  and  when  you 
think  that  this  tribute  has  been  exacted  from  the 
soil  for  a  thousand  years  and  that  to-day  the 
ground  is  as  rich  as  ever,  you  must  doff  your  hat 
to  the  French  peasant. 

This  advanced  cultivation  has  gone  hand-in- 
hand  with  machinery  of  the  most  primitive  type. 
It  is  within  a  generation  that  the  modern  mowers 
have  found  a  market  in  France. 

The  prejudices  against  better  machinery  is  of 
long  standing.  Improved  scythes  were  forbid- 
den in  the  eighteenth  century  because  they  cut 
the  grass  too  closely  and  deprived  the  poor  man 
of  the  stubble  which  served  as  bed  and  covering 
in  his  hut.  The  solicitude  thus  shown  reminds 
one  of  the  tender-hearted  lady  who  told  the  hun- 
gry tramp  that  he  would  find  longer  grass  in  the 
back  yard. 

Now  that  the  subject  of  agriculture  has  been 
dragged  into  this  chapter  it  might  be  well  to 
remind  citizens  of  our  great  United  States  that 
in  1908  we  broke  all  records  by  raising  376,537,- 
000  bushels  of  potatoes.  In  the  same  year 
France,  on  soil  worked  for  centuries,  raised  623,- 
770,000  bushels.  In  addition  thereto  she  raised 
356,000,000  bushels  of  wheat  to  our  737,000,000. 
We  raise  fifteen  bushels  to  the  acre  on  virgin 
soil.     France  raises  twenty-two  bushels  per  acre 


92  Three  Weeks  in  France 

on  land  that  has  been  worked  for  centuries  and 
she  does  it  by  the  use  of  unceasing  industry  and 
artificial  stimulants.  France  does  not  figure  in 
the  world's  wheat  markets  but  she  feeds  herself. 
She  is  the  largest  wheat  grower  in  Europe  out- 
side of  Russia. 

Besides  the  things  mentioned,  France  produces 
millions  of  dollars  worth  annually  of  wine,  oil, 
vegetables,  butter  and  cheese.  She  raises  twice 
as  much  beet  sugar  as  we  do.  Her  big  agricul- 
tural college  is  at  the  Sorbonne.  The  green  rib- 
bon, the  Merite  Agricole,  is  bestowed  for  im- 
provements in  farming. 

With  all  this  ever  recurring  tide  of  wealth, 
provincial  prosperity  has  been  apt  to  manifest 
itself  in  statuary  rather  than  sanitation.  Muse- 
ums, schools  and  boulevards  have  preceded  drain- 
age and  sewers. 

The  peasants  are  thrifty  and  well-to-do  but 
not  clean  in  their  person  nor  cultivated  in  their 
tastes.  They  ride  in  carriages  and  occasionally 
go  without  feet  in  their  stockings. 

Henry  IV  and  his  minister  Sully  were  great 
friends  of  agriculture,  the  former  having  intro- 
duced the  silkworm  into  France. 

Gaillard  is  the  bill-board  man  of  France  and 
glories  in  his  shame.  His  name  is  given  equal 
prominence  with  that  of  his  patron.    Quite  often 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  93 

it  is  difficult  to  determine  whether  Gaillard  or 
Menier  makes  chocolate. 

We  reached  Le  Mans  and  this  time  we  did  not 
forget  to  change  cars.  Having  an  hour  we  drove 
to  the  Place  de  la  Prefecture  where  there  is  a 
statue  of  Pierre  Belon,  a  sixteenth  century  botan- 
ist. We  studied  the  beautiful  west  front  of  Notre 
Dame-de-la-Couture  awhile  before  going  over  to 
the  Place  de  la  Republique,  really  adorned  with 
one  of  the  best  war  monuments  in  France,  com- 
memorating the  soldiers  of  1871,  with  a  statue 
of  General  Chanzy,  who  commanded  the  unfor- 
tunate Army  of  the  Loire. 

We  next  visited  the  cathedral  and  admired  its 
intricately  carved  choir  screen  and  beautiful  old 
windows.  They  showed  us  the  tomb  of  Beren- 
garia,  brought  here  from  its  original  resting 
place.  In  looking  for  it  I  asked  a  reverend  father 
in  my  very  best  French  for  the  "tombeau"  and 
he  led  us  the  entire  length  of  the  church  and  to 
an  exit  to  show  us  the  tramway. 

The  cathedral  is  restored  to  the  point  of  dis- 
traction to  the  antiquarian.  The  interior  walls 
are  as  spick  and  span  as  are  those  of  a  newly 
finished  sky-scraper. 

We  were  conducted  down  forty-six  steps  to  a 
chapel  filled  with  tombs.  One  was  very  recent 
and  covered  with  fresh  flowers.  No  tips  were 
expected  or  accepted     in  this  church.     The  old 


94  Three  Weeks  in  France 

choir  screen  has  been  utilized  for  doors  to  the 
closets  containing  the  vestments.  These  ward- 
robes are  well  worth  looking  at,  but  unless  we 
had  made  the  acquaintance  of  a  hospitable  priest 
we  should  not  have  seen  them. 

Along  the  Sarthe,  between  washerwomen,  were 
countless  fishermen,  possibly  their  husbands.  As 
the  stone-walled  banks  are  quite  steep  some  had 
brought  ladders  which  they  had  lowered  from  the 
top,  using  the  rounds  for  perches. 

All  the  way  to  Tours  our  companion  was  a 
very  pretty  and  very  industrious  young  lady 
doing  some  embroidery  work.  Fully  half  the 
women  who  travel  do  needle  work  of  some  sort 
in  preference  to  reading. 

We  noticed  an  increased  number  of  refrig- 
erator cars  with  "Viandes  Refrigerees"  on  the 
outside.  I  trust  they  are  not  forerunners  of  cold 
storage  warehouses.  Else  the  delicious  broiled 
chicken  of  France  will  become  a  memory. 

France  had  made  great  progress  in  railroading 
since  our  visit  of  nine  years  before.  They  have 
a  large  number  of  full-grown  locomotives,  and 
solid-wheeled  freight  cars  are  rapidly  replacing 
the  band  boxes  with  spoked  wheels.  We  noticed 
many  gigantic  flat  cars. 

At  Dissay  we  commenced  to  note  the  wine 
vaults  extending  back  into  the  hills.  These  nat- 
ural caves  vary  in  embellishment  from  a  simple 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  95 

hole  in  the  mountain  side  to  some  quite  elab- 
orate portals.  Some  reminded  us  of  swallows' 
nests  and  then  we  remembered  that  countless 
swallows  do  nest  here  until  called  for. 

We  plunged  into  seas  of  vineyards  and  knew 
we  were'  in  the  fair  country  of  Touraine.  We 
crossed  the  broad,  placid  Loire  and  entered 
Tours.  The  Loire  is  very  wide  but  has  not  the 
swift  current  of  the  Rhone.  Nevertheless  his- 
tory tells  us  that  the  Loire  has  its  fits  of  bad 
temper  and  on  such  occasions  vast  territories  are 
inundated. 

At  Tours  we  found  ourselves  at  another  of 
those  hotels  that  "augment"  their  rates  a  franc 
a  day  if  you  do  not  eat  one  meal  a  day  at  the 
hotel  in  addition  to  breakfast. 

I  do  not  know  whether  these  petty  augmenta- 
tions worry  other  travelers  as  they  do  me,  but 
I  had  rather  pay  two  franc  more  per  day  and 
have  it  stated  at  the  outset  than  to  pay  one  franc 
in  extras. 

Tours  has  a  very  handsome  depot  and  its 
modern  business  buildings  face  smooth,  clean 
streets.  The  hotel  was  crowded  and  we  slept  on 
a  top  floor  for  the  first  time.  In  place  of  the 
usual  dog,  a  cat  shared  B's  table  d'hote.  Our 
room  was  electric  lighted. 

I  arose  early  in  the  morning  and  found  my 
way  to  the  post  office.     It  was  a  well  arranged 


96  Three  Weeks  in  France 

office  with  thoroughly  modern  equipment.  Tele- 
grams as  well  as  mail  are  handled  in  the  French 
post  offices. 

There  were  six  desks  for  the  public,  good  pens, 
and  all  manner  of  blanks  to  fill  out.  Soldiers 
occupied  two  desks.  It  is  also  a  public  telephone 
station,  but  using  the  telephone  in  France  is  not 
a  matter  to  be  lightly  done.  When  they  do  call 
anyone,  the  greeting  is  "Alio,"  an  approximation 
of  our  own  "hello."  There  are  windows  at  the 
Tours  post  office  for  money  orders,  general 
delivery  and  packages.  Parcels  post  has  been  a 
great  success  in  Great  Britain  and  on  the  conti- 
nent. Its  adoption  in  the  United  States  has  been 
delayed  by  opposition  from  two  sources,  the  large 
express  companies  and  the  local  store-keepers. 
With  the  altruism  which  has  always  distinguished 
the  American  voter,  who  never  knows  when  his 
own  pet  industry  may  be  tampered  with,  the  eco- 
nomic problem  involved  in  the  parcels  post  has 
never  received  due  consideration  except  at  the 
hands  of  a  few  theorists  and  magazine  writers. 

A  law  has  finally  been  passed  which  goes  into 
effect  in  1913  giving  citizens  of  the  United  States 
a  modified  parcels  post.  While  changes  may  be 
necessary  because  of  the  greater  territory  cov- 
ered there  can  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  desirability 
of  the  general  plan.  [Mankind  has  been  prodded 
or  kicked  up  every  round  of  the  ladder  of- prog- 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  97 

ress  from  the  time  of  the  first  bow  and  arrow 
to  the  natal  day  of  the  electric  telegraph,  and  in 
the  case  of  the  parcels  post  another  great  ser- 
vice has  been  forced  on  reluctant  beneficiaries. 

It  is  safe  in  any  town  in  France  where  you 
are  marooned  for  an  hour  to  call  a  cab,  offer  the 
driver  a  franc  less  than  he  asks  and  request  to 
be  driven  to  the  cathedral,  only  you  call  it  "cate- 
dral"  with  the  "h"  silent  as  on  West  Madison 
street.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  there  will  be  a 
cathedral  and  the  tenth  time,  you  will  be  taken 
to  "something  just  as  good"  in  the  shape  of  an 
ancient  church. 

Tours  possesses  that  indefinable  attribute  of  a 
town  or  a  woman  indicated  by  Maggie  Shand 
with  the  word  "charm" ;  picturesque  houses,  the 
wide  rolling  Loire,  steeple-crowned  islands  and 
richly  wooded  hills. 

We  visited  first  the  tomb  of  St.  Martin, 
enclosed  by  a  new  building  whose  interior  is 
made  impressive  by  fourteen  massive  marble  pil- 
lars. The  tomb  is  a  few  feet  below  the  level 
of  the  floor.  Facing  it  is  the  tomb  of  Cardinal 
William  Renat-Meignan  who  died  in  1896  within 
one  year  of  fifteen  centuries  later  than  his  illus- 
trious forerunner.  Above  the  cardinal's  tomb 
hangs  his  red  hat. 

Both  the  Poitevins  and  the  Tourangeoise 
claimed  the  body  of  St.  Martin.     Finally  the  lat- 


98  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ter  secured  the  prize  and  tradition  says  they 
floated  the  body  up  the  Loire  to  Tours  without 
sail  or  oars.  This  was  considered  a  miracle  in 
France,  but  to  float  up-stream  was  once  a  daily 
occurrence  with  articles  on  the  surface  of  the 
Chicago  river  and  its  freight  was  far  from 
saintly.  When  the  body  was  beached,  it  was 
found  that  under  the  rules  he  could  not  have  a 
church  dedicated  to  him  because  he  was  not  a 
martyr,  although  he  suffered  every  penalty  short 
of  martyrdom  for  his  faith.  So  he  was  buried 
in  a  cemetery.  Then  a  chapel  to  St.  Stephen 
was  built  over  his  tomb.  In  473,  on  the  fourth 
of  July,  his  body  was  transferred  to  its  present 
resting  place.  It  became  a  shrine  and  was  vis- 
ited by  kings  and  queens,  bishops  and  popes. 
A  school  was  established  here,  the  cradle  of 
all  French  universities.  The  Chapter  was  rich. 
It  had  the  privilege  of  coining  money  and  the 
talent  for  doing  it.  Hence  in  838  the  Nor- 
mans who  had  a  keen  nose  for  surpluses  con- 
cealed by  surplices  attacked  the  town.  In  order 
to  stampede  the  besiegers  the  citizens  brought  up 
their  biggest  gun.  They  exhumed  the  body  of 
St.  Martin.  You  cannot  keep  a  good  man  down. 
They  paraded  around  the  walls  with  the  body 
and  stampeded  the  enemy  with  a  corpse  that  had 
been  dead  over  four  hundred  years. 

Then  the  relics  were  shipped  around  like  Lib- 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  99 

erty  Bell.  Orleans,  Chablis  and  Auxerre  had 
them  in  turn.  For  thirty-four  years  the  tomb  was 
empty.  It  required  a  pitched  battle  between  the 
various  holy  men  before  Tours  recovered  the 
remains. 

In  1562  the  Protestants  pillaged  the  edifice  and 
scattered  most  of  the  bones.  Some  parts  were 
recovered  and  requiescated  in  peace  until  the 
French  Revolution,  when  the  tomb  was  ravished 
and  the  edifice  ruined.  The  nave  was  taken  down 
in  1802. 

But  shrines  are  too  profitable  to  be  easily  lost 
and  in  18C0  the  exact  spot  was  located.  There 
is  no  use  to  tell  you  how  this  was  done.  If  you 
believe  in  such  things,  the  details  would  be 
superfluous  and  if  you  do  not,  you  would  scoff 
at  them.     Anyhow,  we  do  not  know. 

The  shanties  in  the  vicinity  were  removed  and 
after  many  masses  and  several  collections,  won- 
der of  wonders,  the  exact  spot  was  found. 

While  on  the  subject  of  ancient  customs,  I  am 
reminded  of  an  incident  at  Vitre.  Usually  the 
price  of  a  railroad  ticket  is  printed  thereon.  The 
station  agent  wrote  the  price  on  our  tickets  to 
Tours  and  instead  of  drying  the  ink  with  a  blot- 
ter, she  sanded  it!     Anno  Domini,  191 2!     Fact! 

YVe  went  over  very  rough  cobblestones  to  what 
that  joy-killer  Baedeker  calls  the  "alleged"  house 
of  Tristan,  the  Hermit.     He  is  usually  described 


ioo  Three  Weeks  in  France 

as  Louis  XI's  executioner  and  this  title  sets  the 
lightly-informed  to  searching  their  histories  in 
the  vain  hope  of  learning  of  Louis'  execution. 
Louis  XI  was  not  executed.  Possibly  he  should 
have  been  on  several  counts,  but  he  was  not. 
He  employed  Tristan  to  execute  criminals. 

Naturally  enough  the  house  is  decorated  with 
quaint  carvings.  It  also  did  not  surprise  us  to 
find  the  concierge  a  little  worse  or  better  for 
liquor.  Wisely  he  did  not  attempt  the  winding 
tower  stair  but  hiccoughed  information  up  to  us 
in  boozy  French.  The  house  is  a  pretentious  one 
and  evidently  Tristan  was  well  paid  for  his  work. 

The  Loire  at  the  time  of  our  visit  only  partly 
filled  its  wide  bed,  like  a  slim  tourist  in  a  feather 
mattress.  There  was  a  large  island  in  the  center. 
I  remarked  to  B.  that  the  river  was  low. 

The  driver  said,  "Certainement,  c'est  1'eau" 
and  was  at  a  loss  to  know  why  we  smiled. 

The  front  of  the  old  Hotel  de  Ville  on  the. 
bank  of  the  river  bears  an  honorable  scar  left  by 
the  Prussian  bombardment  in  October  1870.  The 
enemy's  guns  were  placed  on  the  opposite  bank 
and  made  a  neat  little  scalp  wound  directly  under 
the  roof  of  the  building.  There  is  a  new  Hotel 
de  Ville  to-day  and  the  old  one  is  used  for  a 
public  library. 

The  military  road  to  Paris  and  Bordeaux 
crosses  the  river  at  this  point.     Statues  of  Rabe- 


STATI'K    (>F    RAI'.KLAIS      Tori: 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  101 

lais  and  Descartes  face  the  library.  Tours  has 
a  street  named  for  Zola,  but  there  are  more  trans- 
lations of  Nick  Carter  in  the  book  stalls  than 
copies  of  Zola's  works.  In  fact,  Nick  seems  to 
be  the  best  seller  in  France  to-day. 

A  glass  enclosed  hearse  with  four  attendants 
in  plug  hats  and  sombre  garb  passed  us  as  we 
paused  to  photograph  one  of  the  narrow  streets 
leading  away  from  the  river. 

Mass  was  being  celebrated  at  the  cathedral  to 
a  congregation  of  six  or  eight.  The  tomb  of 
the  children  of  Charles  VIII  represents  two  chil- 
dren lying  as  if  in  slumber  while  angels  watch  at 
their  heads  and  feet.  The  windows  are  beauti- 
ful. 

The  rest  of  the  cathedral  does  not  live  up  to 
the  fagade  of  which  Henry  IV  said  that  it  was  a 
jewel  to  which  only  the  casket  was  wanting. 

Within  is  a  picture  of  Christ  and  the  Roman 
soldiers  "given  by  the  Emperor,  1855."  As  the 
centuries  roll  on  that  inscription  will  need  to 
be  made  more  definite.  We  stumbled  over  the 
rough  stones,  hollowed  by  the  feet  of  centuries 
of  worshippers  and  murmured  "This  is  indeed 
hollowed  ground." 

It  cost  ten  cents  and  a  little  exertion  to  ascend 
the  tower,  but  the  view  justified  both  expendi- 
tures. 

From  a  photographic  standpoint  B.   objected 


102  Three  Weeks  in  France 

to  the  gargoyles  because  they  were  so  high.  Most 
people  would  prefer  them  still  higher. 

The  Tomb  of  St.  Martin  has  a  dome  not  un- 
like that  of  the  Invalides  where  Napoleon  is  en- 
tombed. 

The  new  Hotel  de  Ville  is  white  with  a  black 
roof.  Four  large  caryatides  support  it  and  four 
figures  of  heroic  size  ornament  the  roof.  A 
bronze  statue  of  Balzac  decorates  the  Place  in 
front.  He  was  born  here  in  1799.  Tours  is  at 
once  the  cradle  of  the  French  language  in  its 
purity,  and  of  the  French  novel  in  its  impurity. 

Beautiful  as  is  the  French  language  it  is  not 
patrician  in  its  origin.  It  is  based  on  the  collo- 
quial Latin  of  the  Roman  soldier.  The  Celtic 
element,  not  being  written,  disappeared.  The 
Germanic  tribes  contributed  little  but  war  terms. 
The  invading  Franks  deposited  about  nine  hun- 
dred words  in  the  great  moraine. 

Gambetta  made  Tours  the  headquarters  of  his 
ambulatory  government  in  1870  until  chased  out 
by  the  Germans.  Prior  to  this,  1138  years  to  be 
exact,  Charles  Martel  checked  the  Saracens  at 
this  point. 

At  the  hotel  we  paid  our  bill  to  the  smiling  man- 
ageress and  tribute  to  the  man  who  took  care  of 
our  room  and  ransomed  our  baggage  from  two 
porters.  The  bus  driver  witnessing  the  deluge  of 
ten  sou  pieces  resolved  to  participate  so  he  clung 


Le  Mans  and  Tours  103 

to  our  suit  cases  at  the  depot  at  the  imminent 
danger  of  making  us  miss  our  train.  Eventually 
he  landed  both  us  and  our  tip  in  the  proper 
places. 


104  Chambord  and  Blois 


VII 

Chambord  and  Blois 


BUR  train  stopped  at  Amboise  with  its 
blood-soaked  castle.     Twelve  hundred 
I     Protestants  were  killed  here  in  1560  to 

frustrate  a  plot  against  the  Guises. 
The  Edict  of  Amboise  in  1563  granted  amnesty 
to  the  Huguenots.  This  would  seem  a  safe  order 
of  procedure.  First  massacre  your  fellow  Chris- 
tians for  doctrinal  differences,  then  grant  them 
amnesty. 

Abd-el-Kader,  an  Algerian  chief,  was  a  pris- 
oner here  from  1847  to  1852  for  trying  to  apply 
the  Monroe  doctrine  to  Africa. 

In  1895  the  castle  reverted  from  the  d'Aumales 
to  the  Orleans  family  by  some  process  as  mys- 
terious as  stage  law  and  to-day  it  is  an  asylum 
for  superannuated  servants.  Most  castles  are, 
but  usually  the  premises  are  shared  during  part 
of  the  year  by  the  family. 

Just  then  right  under  our  car  window  an  argu- 


Chambord  and  Blois  105 

ment  started  which  for  a  few  minutes  put  the 
feud  of  the  Guises  and  the  Condes  out  of  our 
minds.  For  a  brief  space  the  air  seemed  full  of 
fight,  but  we  soon  discovered,  in  the  language  of 
Mr.  Dooley,  that  the  fight  was  full  of  air.  The 
question  under  debate  was  whether  a  tardy 
Frenchman  should  be  permitted  to  put  his  bicycle 
into  the  baggage  car.  After  delaying  us  ten  min- 
utes the  station  agent  seemed  to  think  he  had 
saved  his  face  and  the  wheel  was  put  aboard. 
Our  suggestion  that  he  ride  the  wheel  to  the 
next  station  and  await  our  arrival,  apparently 
was  not  understood.  At  any  rate  it  was  not 
adopted. 

Beyond  Veuves-Monteaux  (which  must  be 
where  the  widows  come  from)  we  saw  the 
Chateau  of  Chaumont  on  the  right.  Diana  of 
Poitiers  lived  there.  She  was  the  ancient  lady 
who  captured  the  heart  of  Henry  II  while  he  was 
Dauphin  and  although  twenty  years  his  senior  she 
held  the  citadel  of  his  affections  against  all  out- 
side assaults  until  his  death. 

Some  one  must  have  told  her  that  her  husband 
was  dead  in  1 531,  and  in  grateful  recognition  of 
his  demise  she  built  the  splendid  tomb  that  we 
saw  at  Rouen.  At  the  death  of  Henry  she  estab- 
lished a  charitable  institution  for  the  care  of 
twelve    widows,    although    she    had    abundantly 


io6  Three  Weeks  in  France 

proved  that  a  widow  could  take  care  of  herself. 
Her  married  name  was  Breze,  and  we  see  no  ob- 
jection to  giving  both  vowels  the  long  sound. 

Catherine  de  Medici,  the  titular  wife  of  Henry 
II  also  lived  at  Chaumont.  She  showed  she  was 
a  pretty  lively  widow  after  his  death,  but  under 
the  circumstances  you  could  hardly  expect  her  to 
mope  as  much  as  Diana  did.  She  was  the  lady 
who  engineered  the  Bartholomew  massacre  in 
1572  which  did  so  much  to  correct  the  proportion 
of  heretics  to  true  believers.  As  an  intriguer  she 
was  worthy  of  her  Italian  lineage  and  was  one 
of  many  outsiders  who  have  altered  the  history 
of  France  for  better  or  worse:  Gambetta,  Cag- 
liostro,  Mazarin,  yes  even  Napoleon  Bonaparte, 
who  was  always  more  Italian  than  French  in 
his  vanity,  his  egotism  and  his  violence.  You  can 
not  change  a  man's  character  by  pushing  a  boun- 
dary line  past  his  birthplace  a  year  before  he  is 
born. 

We  rode  through  miles  of  vines,  green,  pur- 
ple and  almost  black.  They  were  heavy  with 
tiny  green  clusters  that  promised  a  big  harvest. 
Possibly  you  have  ridden  through  a  wheat  coun- 
try and  gazed  over  a  rippling  yellow  sea  of  grain, 
reaching  from  horizon  to  horizon.  We  were  just 
as  literally  surrounded  by  vines. 

At  Blois  we  had  a  dusty  drive  to  the  hotel  and 


Chambord  and  Blois  107 

ordered  a  motor  for  Chambord.  A  carriage  could 
be  hired  more  cheaply  but  would  require  a  longer 
time. 

Our  room  window  gave  a  good  view  of  the 
Chateau  of  Blois  which  is  really  a  castle.  Its 
most  beautiful  portion  was  built  by  Francis  I, 
the  great  builder.  We  postponed  our  visit  to  the 
interior  until  the  morrow. 

Chambord  and  its  twenty  square  miles  of  park 
claimed  our  first  attention.  This  too  was  begun 
by  Francis  I  and  was  his  favorite  residence.  He 
originated  the  fashion  of  carving  your  initials  on 
castle  walls.  His  "F"  is  everywhere,  together 
with  a  vicious  looking  salamander  endeavoring 
to  make  both  ends  meet — a  gigantic  task  for  a 
king  whose  fad  was  castles. 

Louis  XV  gave  Chambord  to  Marshall  Saxe 
in  1748.  Saxe  was  also  ambidextrous.  He  was 
the  left-handed  grandpa  of  George  Sand.  Stan- 
islaus of  Poland  lived  here  an  exile  from  1725- 
33  in  better  quarters  than  he  had  ever  known  at 
home.  Had  an  attempt  been  made  to  rescue 
him,  we  have  no  doubt  that  Stanislaus  would  have 
been  found  among  the  chateau's  most  determined 
defenders.  Napoleon  gave  it  to  Marshall  Ber- 
thier  when  he  was  passing  castles  around.  Ber- 
thier  fought  in  America  under  Lafayette,  so  we 
felt  quite  as  if  we  were  returning  a  call. 


108  Three  Weeks  in  France 

It  now  belongs  to  the  Parma  family,  well 
known  for  their  excellent  cheese. 

We  whirled  rapidly  along  a  smooth  but  dusty 
road  upon  the  Loire  embankment  past  two  clean 
little  villages  and  a  wayside  cross  of  iron.  We 
turned  into  the  park  down  a  long  avenue  whose 
vista  of  trees  is  closed  by  the  walls  of  the  chateau. 
We  left  the  machine  and  walked  to  the  entrance 
door  where  we  dropped  coins  into  a  slot  ma- 
chine which  reluctantly  spat  two  tickets  into  our 
hands.  The  party  which  had  come  by  bus  joined 
us  and  waited  for  the  guide.  All  of  the  tour- 
ists were  English  or  Americans.  As  usual  we 
were  kept  in  a  room  devoted  to  the  sale  of  post 
cards  and  souvenirs,  for  about  half  an  hour. 
Within  the  court  the  famous  spiral  staircase  was 
visible. 

Chambord  is  not  elaborately  furnished.  Most 
of  the  carved  panels,  wainscots,  doors  and  shut- 
ters were  used  as  fuel  by  the  Revolutionists  in 
1793.  There  is  no  doubt  but  the  basic  idea  of 
these  earnest  men  was  correct,  but  one  cannot 
help  deploring  some  of  their  methods.  There 
ought  to  be  some  better  reason  for  demolishing 
a  thing  than  that  it  is  artistic  and  that  it  once 
gladdened  the  eye  of  an  aristocrat. 

The  first  room  we  entered  looked  like  an  Elk's 
dream  of  heaven,  a  B.  P.  O.  Elk,  we  mean.    The 


Chambord  and  Blois  109 

walls  were  covered  with  antlers  and  heads  of 
stags  and  elks  of  all  degrees. 

There  is  a  new  staircase,  also  spiral.  The  old 
one  is  so  constructed  that  those  ascending  cannot 
see  the  persons  coming  down.  So  says  Baedeker, 
but  if  they  came  down  the  same  ones  that  you 
were  ascending  we  do  not  see  how  you  could 
help  seeing  them  unless  you  were  blindfolded  or 
intoxicated.  For  fear  this  book  may  fall  into  the 
hands  of  a  serious-minded  reviewer  it  might  be 
well  to  state  that  if  you  select  the  proper  stair- 
way, you  can  pass  any  one  ascending  by  the  other 
one  without  being  seen ;  a  very  useful  arrangement 
for  Francis  when  the  contractors  began  to  bring 
in  their  bills.  Anyhow,  the  staircase  is  closed 
now. 

The  big  stove  in  one  of  the  rooms  was  built 
there  by  Marshall  Saxe.  That  man  did  love  to 
make  it  warm  for  people. 

There  are  over  four  hundred  apartments  in  the 
chateau,  and  in  case  it  was  crowded,  a  few  guests 
could  be  accommodated  in  the  barns  where  there 
is  room  for  twelve  hundred  horses.  They  were 
built  when  France  had  a  stable  government. 

In  the  chapel  is  some  lovely  tapestry  made  by 
a  lady  when  a  prisoner  here.  We  did  not  get  her 
name  and  we  may  be  tangled  on  the  facts.  But 
we  know  there  was  tapestry  in  one  of  the  rooms 
and  we  believe  it  was  in  the  chapel. 


no  Three  Weeks  in  France 

The  dining  room  was  built  by  Louis  XIV. 
That  man  might  overlook  a  bath  room  but  he 
never  forgot  the  dining  room.  He  usually  started 
dinner  with  two  or  three  kinds  of  soup,  just 
for  an  appetizer.  Louis  Philippe  was  even  more 
royal.  He  would  eat  four  kinds  of  soup  and  call 
for  a  fifth  plate  in  which  he  mixed  the  remains  of 
all  four.  No  wonder  the  head  that  wore  a  crown 
lay  uneasy.  And  no  wonder  that  Louis  Philippe 
decorated  a  room  in  the  Palace  at  Fontainebleau 
with  plates.  He  should  have  been  crowned  Louis 
Fillup. 

There  are  many  portraits,  including  one  of 
Mme.  Lafayette  and  a  large  painting  of  the 
Count  of  Chambord  at  forty-four.  His  bed 
chamber  bears  the  initials  M.  T.  and  H.  He 
would  have  been  Henry  V  of  France  in  1830  had 
not  France  decided  otherwise.  M.  T.  did  not 
refer  to  the  throne  but  were  the  initials  of  his 
wife  Maria  Theresa  of  Modena.  He  died  in 
1883  after  several  efforts  to  ascend  the  throne 
of  France,  the  final  attempt  following  Sedan. 

We  went  into  the  workshop  and  study  of 
Francis  I.  Once  he  scratched  his  name  on  a 
window  of  this  room,  but  Louis  XIV,  the  Mag- 
nificent, because  of  jealousy,  broke  out  the  pane 
of  glass.  If  you  do  not  believe  it  they  will  show 
you  the  pane  that  replaced  it,  and  sure  enough, 
there  is  no  writing  on   it.     Some  say  he   was 


Chambord  and  Blois  in 

jealous  of  la  Valliere's  admiration  for  Francis, 
but  that  is  a  gross  injustice  to  the  memory  of 
that  lady.     Louise  was  not  picking  dead  ones. 

We  went  up  the  new  circular  staircase  to  the 
ball  room.  It  was  much  larger  before  this  big 
staircase  was  cut  through.  In  the  time  of  Louis 
XIV  it  was  gilded  and  used  as  a  theatre.  Moliere 
played  here.  It  is  interesting  to  compare  this 
grand  auditorium  in  which  he  played  three  of  his 
"first  nights"  with  that  narrow  stage  in  the  dark 
dining  room  of  the  Middle  Temple  in  London 
where  Shakespeare  played  before  Elizabeth. 

There  are  four  hundreds  panels  in  the  ceil- 
ing of  the  Chambord  ball  room.  No  two  are 
alike,  but  each  embodies  either  an  ornamental  F 
or  a  hideous  salamander.  We  were  skeptical  as 
to  their  unlikeness.  It  may  save  you  trouble  to 
know  that  we  checked  them  all  back.  Once  we 
thought  we  had  one  on  Nepveau,  the  architect. 
The  eighth  panel  in  the  fourth  row  in  the  north 
room  looked  very  similar  to  the  third  one  in  the 
sixth  row  in  the  west  room,  but  after  trotting 
back  and  forth  several  times  we  discovered  that 
the  end  of  the  tendril  around  the  middle  arm  of 
the  F  curled  in  different  directions  in  the  two 
designs.  There  are  some  dissimilarities  among 
the  others  that  are  even  more  marked. 

We  walked  out  on  a  roof  from  which  we  had 
a  splendid  view  of  the  park.    From  here  we  could 


ii2  Three  Weeks  in  France 

note  that  even  the  chimneys  were  marked  F.  R. 
F.  for  Francis  Roi  de  France.  To  the  south 
stretched  the  large  field  where  Saxe  maneuvred 
his  cavalry. 

After  a  twenty-five  mile  ride  we  reached  the 
hotel  and  actually  took  a  nap. 

Oh,  the  joy  of  running  water!  I  do  not  mean 
the  babbling  brook  or  the  graceful  cascade  but 
the  humble  creation  of  the  modern  plumber. 
The  hotel  at  Blois  was  the  first  one  we  had  found 
that  had  running  water  in  its  rooms.  After  gaz- 
ing for  hours  at  fieurs  de  lis  and  salamanders 
and  capital  F's,  we  were  saved  from  envy  by  the 
thought  that  when  Francis  I  wanted  to  wash  his 
royal  lineaments  he  had  to  have  water  brought 
to  him  in  a  pail. 

Our  chauffeur  when  given  two  gold  pieces, 
which  exceeded  his  lawful  and  agreed  fare  by 
five  francs,  tipped  his  hat  and  started  to  climb 
into  his  machine.  Now  five  francs  was  or  were 
too  much  pourboire.  He  might  overdrink  him- 
self. So  we  said  sternly,  "The  change,  please." 
A  plaintive  look  came  into  his  big  brown  eyes. 
We  put  out  a  palm  hard  with  honest  American 
labor,  and  he  produced  a  wallet  with  a  time  lock 
on  it  from  which  he  slowly  dug  up  a  franc.  We 
said  "Encore"  with  more  enthusiasm  than  we 
ever  did  at  grand  opera  and  he  found  another 
franc  in  an  oubliette  behind  a  flap  in  the  pocket 


Chambord  and  Blois  113 

book.  Feeling  that  if  we  extracted  one  more  coin 
he  would  bleed,  we  let  him  retain  a  three  franc 
largesse.  It  sounds  pretty  small  when  you  write 
down  the  labor  involved  in  settling  a  sixty  cent 
tip  but  all  things  are  relative  and  it  had  cost  us 
several  hundred  dollars  to  be  laid  down  in  Blois 
and  we  did  not  mean  to  be  held  up. 

Henri  had  saved  us  the  best  table  in  the  din- 
ing room,  which  confirmed  the  theory  that  a  di- 
minishing system  of  tips  to  the  headwaiter  pays. 
Your  first  tip,  if  liberal,  impresses  him.  The 
second  one,  a  few  sous  smaller,  perplexes  him, 
and  he  increases  his  efforts.  The  third,  if  further 
reduced,  fills  him  with  despair  and  he  taxes  his 
ingenuity  to  please.  It  will  not  work  for  a  long 
stay,  but  is  fine  for  one  or  two  days. 

At  dinner  we  noticed  a  friendless  dog  on  the 
sidewalk  tussling  with  a  piece  of  tough  bread. 
A  big,  well-fed  canine  came  along  and  took  the 
morsel  from  his  unresisting  victim.  The  rob- 
ber carried  his  spoil  to  the  middle  of  the  street, 
worried  it  awhile  in  front  of  its  former  posses- 
sor and  left  it  uneaten  and  covered  with  dust. 

The  puppy,  mildly  acquiescent  in  the  Divine 
Right  of  big  dogs,  blinked  his  eyes.  We  from 
our  seven  course  abundance  selected  bits  of  meat 
and  threw  them  near  him.  He  did  not  see  us, 
but  sniffed  the  meat  and  hungrily  devoured  it. 


ii4  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  succeeded  in  remaining  undiscovered  as  he 
ate  course  after  course. 

Doubtless  he  regarded  his  dinner  as  a  direct 
gift  from  heaven,  and  had  he  possessed  the 
power  he  would  have  erected  a  large  kennel  on 
the  spot  and  lame  and  hungry  dogs  from  all 
Christendom  would  drag  themselves  hither.  For 
most  miracles  are  only  miracles  to  the  ignorant 
and  ignorance  is  a  relative  term. 

Our  apple  tart  was  ornamented  with  slices  of 
the  peel  cut  in  crescents  and  arranged  around  the 
border.  It  did  not  add  any  to  the  nutriment 
thereof,  but  it  was  pretty  to  look  at  and  easier  to 
eat  and  cost  nothing  but  a  little  care.  It  was 
characteristically  French. 

Friday  morning  we  were  awakened  at  six 
o'clock  by  the  bell  ringing  for  mass.  We  peered 
out  at  the  early  worshippers  but  did  not  arise 
until  eight.  At  that  hour  people  were  still  going 
into  church — mostly  women. 

After  breakfast  we  walked  to  the  chateau  and 
snapped  the  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XII  over 
the  entrance.  Beneath  it  was  the  hedgehog  or 
porcupine  of  the  House  of  Blois.  There  are  good 
points  about  such  an  emblem.  In  the  courtyard 
is  an  excellent  view  of  the  valley  of  the  Loire. 
Many  fallen  gargoyles  are  strewn  about  like  a 
stone-mason's  nightmare. 

We  were  taken  in  charge  by  an  intelligent  and 


i:\TIi.\XCI-:   TO   CHATEAU — BLOIS 


Chambord  and  Blois  115 

intelligible  guide  who  showed  us  through  the 
three  wings  of  the  castle  named  after  their  re- 
spective builders,  Francis  I,  Gaston  and  Louis 
XII.  There  are  some  magnificent  fireplaces,  par- 
ticularly in  the  Louis  XII  wing.  He  also  built 
the  richly  decorated  Chapel  of  St.  Calais ;  his 
betrothal  to  Anne  of  Brittany  is  depicted  in  one 
of  the  windows.  There  are  three  Halls  of  the 
Guard.  We  ascended  the  beautiful  staircase  built 
by  Gaston.  The  Francis  I  staircase  is  more  mag- 
nificent and  also  more  complete,  for  the  sculptor 
who  made  the  Gaston  staircase  died  before  fin- 
ishing it  and  it  stands  as  he  left  it.  There  are 
salamanders  everywhere,  the  sign  manual  of 
Francis  I.  The  bedroom  of  Henry  II  and  Cath- 
erine de  Medici  is  handsomely  furnished  and  has 
beautifully  carved  stone  doors.  We  invaded  her 
toilet  room  and  stood  in  the  apartment  where  she 
died,  unhappy,  wicked,  thwarted  woman. 

There  are  two  hundred  and  ninety  panels  in 
her  study  and  writing  room,  no  two  alike.  The 
castle  abounds  in  secret  stairways,  closets  and 
chambers.  In  the  study,  the  guide  pressed  a 
spring  with  his  foot  and  the  solid  wall  in  front 
of  him  opened,  disclosing  a  closet. 

We  went  out  on  the  gallery  and  thence  to  the 
dungeon,  with  an  oubliette  in  the  center  of  the 
floor.  We  were  now  in  the  assassination  center 
of  the  Henry  III  administration.    This  vacillating 


n6  Three  Weeks  in  France 

coward  killed  the  Cardinal  de  Guise  in  the  dun- 
geon. 

On  the  floor  above,  his  brother,  the  "scar-faced" 
Francois,  the  second  duke,  was  stabbed  to  death. 
He  died  right  where  we  were  standing,  but  not 
before  he  had  received  a  kingly  kick  in  the  face 
from  Henry  III  who  was  himself  to  die  by  the 
hand  of  a  Dominican  friar.  That  ended  the 
Valois  line  and  opened  the  way  for  Henry  of 
Navarre,  gay,  rollicking  soldier  of  fortune,  Prot- 
estant or  Catholic  as  the  situation  demanded  and 
always  the  typical  Gascon,  with  equal  parts  of 
gas  and  con.  The  Jesuits  were  banished  for 
trying  to  assassinate  him  in  1595,  although  he  had 
joined  the  Catholic  church  in  1593.  They  wanted 
to  kill  him  while  he  was  converted. 

He  was  flat  broke  when  he  took  the  job  and 
even  utilized  the  mourning  clothes  of  his  prede- 
cessor, cut  down  to  fit  him.  Armies  were  as  un- 
certain as  Southern  delegates  in  those  days. 
Sometimes  a  noble  would  take  his  gang  and  go 
home  without  giving  notice.  Navarre  was  a  born 
leader.  He  showed  great  bravery  in  battle  but 
feared  assassins  in  private.  Men  loved  him.  So 
did  women.  At  least  fifty-six  are  known  to  have 
done  so.  He  was  a  small  man.  So  many  heroes 
and  lady  killers  are.  At  the  Battle  of  Ivry  he 
wore  a  white  plume  on  himself  and  another  on 
his  horse.     He  realized  the  value  of  the   front 


Chambord  and  Blois  117 

page  and  had  he  lived  to-day  he  would  have  been 
a  constant  occupant  thereof. 

His  conversion  to  Catholicism  was  due  partly 
to  politics,  partly  to  sentiment.  Gabrielle  de 
Liancourt,  his  second  mistress,  knowing  that  the 
Huguenots  disapproved  their  liason  urged  him 
to  join  a  church  with  more  catholic  views. 

Navarre  took  his  degree  in  Roman  Catholic- 
ism before  Paris  would  admit  him.  He  wanted 
to  cut  out  the  instruction  and  take  the  whole 
business  on  faith  but  he  had  to  go  through  with 
it.  He  accepted  purgatory  because  "through 
the  masses  for  the  souls  in  purgatory  you  clergy 
make  such  excellent  revenues."  But  having  re- 
canted Protestantism,  he  turned  a  cold  shoulder 
on  the  Huguenots.  The  Edict  of  Nantes  was  the 
sole  sop  thrown  to  them. 

He  gave  France  thousands  of  mulberry  trees 
and  founded  the  silk  industry.  He  and  Sully  did 
much  to  improve  agricultural  methods  in  France. 
He  built  most  of  the  Louvre.  His  daughter 
Henriette  Maria  was  the  wife  of  the  ill-fated 
Charles  I  of  England. 

Henry  IV  was  assassinated  in  1C10.  From  his 
death  the  pot  of  the  Revolution  began  to  sim- 
mer. 

Just  why  we  should  have  been  lured  from  the 
Chateau  of  Blois  into  a  long  dissertation  regard- 
ing Henry  of  Navarre,  we  do  not  know,  except 


n8  Three  Weeks  in  France 

that  to  us  he  is  the  most  fascinating  figure  in 
history;  not  the  most  consistent,  nor  the  most 
admirable  perhaps,  but  the  most  human. 

The  gallery  of  the  throne  room  is  gone  but 
they  have  left  a  most  remarkable  echo  wander- 
ing through  these  haunted  chambers.  There  are 
two  figures  over  the  door.  One  is  a  piper  and 
the  other,  to  judge  from  his  pained  attitude,  a 
listener. 

B.  could  not  listen  and  interpret  simultaneously, 
so  we  had  to  look  up  afterward  to  see  whether 
the  person  mentioned  was  married  or  murdered 
in  certain  rooms.  This  method  insures  accuracy 
to  the  reader,  but  renders  intelligent  and  appro- 
priate emotion  on  the  spot  difficult. 

There  are  not  very  many  carriages  for  hire  in 
Blois.  The  only  one  near  the  hotel  was  taken,  so 
we  climbed  into  a  trolley  car.  Before  the  car 
started  the  carriage  was  disengaged  and  we  took 
it.  Just  as  the  carriage  drove  off  we  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  trolley  start. 

We  drove  to  the  cathedral  and  down  the  rue 
des  Orfevres  with  its  old  houses,  past  rows  of 
garbage  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  to  the  theatre 
and  market  place. 

As  usual,  we  returned  to  the  hotel  out  of 
breath  and  found  the  untipped  horde  awaiting 
our  arrival  and  trembling  lest  we  be  late. 


A    KALI-UN    GARGOYLE — BLOIS 


Pau  119 


D 


VIII 

Pan 

T  was  very  hot  when  we  left  Blois,  and 
we  were  booked  for  eleven  hours 
through  the  tropical  portion  of  France. 
Our  destination  was  Bordeaux,  but  it 
would  have  been  folly  to  stop  there  on  such  a 
day,  so  we  kept  right  on  to  Pau  and  the 
Pyrenees.  There  were  six  of  us  in  an  eight 
place  compartment.  Each  one  had  considerable 
baggage  and  two  were  somewhat  oversize.  A 
large  man  in  a  yellow  duster  sat  by  B..  while 
my  companion  was  a  corpulent  lady  with  a  wide 
hat  who  had  the  yielding  surface  and  a  good  deal 
of  the  temperature  of  a  hot  water  bag.  Every 
one  was  frankly  observant  when  I  read  or  wrote. 
Curiosity  is  a  characteristic  of  the  French. 
Carlyle  in  his  French  Revolution  quotes  J.  Caesar 
who  wrote  a  travel  book  nineteen  centuries  ago 
and  remarked  on  the  volatility  of  the  Gauls  and 
their  fondness  for  news. 

This  abounding  curiosity  and  love  of  novelty 
is  the  basis  for  another  trait,  fickleness.     Within 


120  Three  Weeks  in  France 

fifteen  years  after  the  inception  of  the  French 
Revolution  when  men  committed  every  atrocity 
in  their  frenzy  for  political  liberty,  on  May  18, 
1804.  there  was  only  one  dissenting  voice  in  the 
Tribunate  against  making  Napoleon  emperor  of 
France.     That  was  the  voice  of  Carnot. 

Flow  on  earth  has  even  the  semblance  of  a  re- 
public been  built  from  such  material  surrounded 
on  every  side  by  intriguants  of  the  old  regime 
and  honeycombed  with  antagonistic  religious  in- 
fluences ?  There  can  only  be  one  reply.  The  op- 
posing outside  pressure  has  given  solidity  to  a 
mass  that  left  to  its  own  devices  could  never  have 
taken  permanent  form. 

The  pope  himself  came  to  Paris  to  crown  the 
joke  and  the  coronation  took  place  December 
2,  1804,  year  thirteen  of  the  Republic.  Bona- 
parte came  late  on  the  scene  and  reaped  what  he 
had  not  sown,  seizing  a  crown  from  the  hands- 
of  a  tired,  fickle  people. 

The  French  are  daring  innovators.  They  think 
logically  and  execute  artistically.  The  Revolu- 
tion had  its  inception  in  the  Encyclopedists  and 
its  culmination  in  the  Code  Napoleon.  In  the 
Theatre  Francois,  the  price  of  the  seats  is  cut  in 
marble  but  the  monogram  of  the  government  is 
detachable. 

They  evolve  brilliantly  along  all  lines.  Bicy- 
cles, automobiles,  aeroplanes,  the  gas  engine,  the 


Pau  121 

mitrailleuse,  submarines,  photography  and  pyro- 
metry  find  their  highest  development  in  France. 
Here  originated  the  decimal  system,  or  rather  here 
it  first  took  root  after  its  invention  by  Stevin,  a 
Belgian.  Berthelot  developed  modern  chemistry 
and  Pasteur  and  Curie  in  their  respective  fields 
made  revolutionary  discoveries.  Stearine  candles, 
Argand  burners,  storage  batteries,  all  are  French. 
A  Frenchman  deciphered  the  hieroglyphics.  The 
French  after  bringing  silk  manufacture  to  its 
highest  point,  invented  artificial  silk. 

They  love  new  ideas.  Franklin  received 
prompter  recognition  in  France  than  in  England 
or  America.  We  repeat,  they  are  brilliant  inno- 
vators, working  in  an  orderly,  logical,  artistic 
manner. 

And  while  most  of  our  fellow  passengers  are 
hanging  out  the  corridor  windows,  gulping  in 
hot  air  we  will  try  to  maintain  nature's  equili- 
brium by  adding  a  few  more  words  about  France, 
based  largely  on  reading  and  confirmed  by  ob- 
servation. 

Since  ever  there  has  been  a  France  she  has  em- 
bodied the  social  instinct.  The  absence  of  in- 
dividual spirit,  the  absence  of  the  sense  of 
personal  responsibility,  the  social  interdependence 
of  the  people,  one  associates  at  once  with  the  in- 
fluence of  the  Catholic  church. 

The  great  work  of  the   Reformation  was  to 


122 


Three  Weeks  in  France 


quicken  the  sense  of  personal  responsibility  by 
awakening  the  conscience.  It  did  away  with 
middlemen  and  put  a  man  face  to  face  with  God 
without  benefit  of  saint  or  clergy.  But  the  Ref- 
ormation never  made  any  headway  in  France. 

A  man's  conscience  should  be  moved  from 
within  and  not  from  without.  It  should  be 
propelled  by  springs,  not  spurs.  Renunciation 
and  asceticism  are  virtues  of  the  Catholic  church 
— but  not  of  a  Catholic  community. 

The  church  has  organized  its  renunciation,  and 
sold  the  indulgence  earned  thereby  to  society. 
Like  citizens  who  desire  to  evade  military  duty, 
the  layman  pays  a  substitute  to  do  his  spiritual 
fighting  and  doubtless  feels  that  he  has  obtained 
full  value.  We  have  no  quarrel  with  him  if  he 
is  satisfied. 

The  result  is  a  splendid  army  of  fighters  and 
a  very  much  relaxed  society.  Thus  we  find  in 
French  cities  a  condition  of  immorality  which  is 
harmoniously  evolved  without  spiritual  restraint. 

The  French  are  the  most  homogeneous  people 
in  the  world.  They  are  truly  a  nation.  What 
one  notes  in  an  individual  is,  more  than  in  any 
other  country,  a  national  trait. 

Character  counts  less  than  capacity.  They 
worship  intelligence.  They  become  ennuied  of 
each  other  and  are  political  epicureans.  They 
pay  the  penalty  of  the  bon  vivant  to  whom  the 


Pau  123 

most  highly  spiced  viands  taste  flat,  hence  they 
must  have  an  occasional  revolution. 

There  are  few  intellectual  giants  among  the 
French,  but- this  is  due  to  the  high  general  level. 
France  is  not  a  plain  with  here  and  there  a  cloud 
piercing  peak.    It  is  a  plateau. 

As  remarked  before,  the  great  French  are  apt 
to  be  Italians,  but  Italians  who  would  never  have 
been  great  in  Italy. 

This  plateau  is  great  en  masse.  Great  indi- 
viduals like  Mirabeau  or  Danton  are  apt  to  be  in- 
complete, to  lack  a  balance  wheel.  They  are  not 
illuminants,  they  are  pyrotechnics.  They  are  not 
candles,  they  are  Roman  candles. 

Solider  building  has  been  done  by  the  entire 
nation  acting  under  the  Corsican,  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte, or  the  Genoese,  Gambetta.  The  man  who 
planted  the  seed  of  the  Revolution,  Rousseau, 
was  a  Swiss. 

Because  of  their  boiling  at  such  a  low  temper- 
ature there  is  a  great  deal  of  scolding  in  France 
but  no  fighting.  The  landlady  scolds  the  serv- 
ants and  they  scold  back.  The  driver  scolds  his 
horse  and  hands  him  a  lump  of  sugar.  The 
policeman  scolds  the  driver  but  does  not  arrest 
him. 

The  sensation  that  the  French  produce  on  an 
impressionable  foreigner  is  mental  exhilaration. 
All  France  is  electric.     Faris  is  shocking.     Noth- 


124  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ing  stagnates.  Vivacity  is  universal  and  con- 
tagious. This  is  what  France  stands  for.  Paris 
will  stand  for  anything. 

This  alert  intelligence  is  unhampered  by  moral 
restraint.  Sam  Small  once  remarked  to  the 
writer,  "If  I  had  money  and  no  moral  sense,  I 
would  rather  live  in  Paris  than  anywhere  else." 
He  who  goes  there  with  one  soon  loses  the 
other. 

Nowhere  outside  of  France  could  an  aviation 
meet  at  which  a  Minister  of  War  was  killed  be 
continued  and  a  record  broken  on  the  same  day, 
as  occurred  in  191 1. 

To  admit  a  thing  after  it  has  been  proved ;  to 
adopt  it  after  it  has  been  admitted  :  this  is  French, 
and  with  them  traditions,  whether  political  or  re- 
ligious, have  very  little  weight. 

There  is  little  emigration  from  France  and 
that  little  always  hopes  to  return. 

The  contrast  between  the  peasants  and  the 
aristocracy  is  as  remarkable  now  as  it  always  has 
been.  The  peasants  are  thrifty  and  conservative. 
Only  the  wine  growers  are  spendthrifts.  Fertile 
soil,  admirably  conserved,  industry  and  economy 
have  made  France  rich.  They  are  not  colonists, 
nor  enterprising  merchants,  nor  large  manufac- 
turers. One-third  of  the  land  in  France  is  owned 
by  peasants  whose  individual  holdings  are  less 
than  twenty  acres.     There  are  over  three  and  a 


Pau  125 

half  million  proprietors  cultivating  their  own 
land.  In  1792  Arthur  Young  wrote  "The  magic 
of  property  (ownership)  turns  sand  to  gold." 
Contrast  this  result  with  the  effect  of  the  tenant 
system  in  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  where  they 
are  even  losing  their  sand  at  present. 

Taxes  are  about  as  high  now  as  under  Louis 
XV  but  they  are  equally  distributed  and  it  costs 
less  to  collect  them.  Napoleon  did  efficiently 
with  six  thousand  collectors  the  work  that  it  re- 
quired two  hundred  thousand  to  do  badly  under 
Louis  XV.  The  cost  of  collecting  is  now  less 
than  five  per  cent.  Under  the  old  regime  not 
half  the  money  collected  reached  the  royal  coffers. 
The  rest  was  graft. 

In  addition  thereto  the  church  was  entitled  to 
its  tithe  but  it  was  lenient  and  probably  did  not 
get  more  than  seven  per  cent.  There  were  feudal 
dues  also.  Quite  often  these  three,  king,  church 
and  overlord,  took  one-half  the  earnings  of  a 
land  owner. 

Some  sections  fared  better.  Languedoc,  Prov- 
ence and  Dauphiny  were  usually  prosperous.  Or- 
leans, Brittany  and  Limousin  were  as  a  rule 
starving. 

That  is  enough  for  a  hot  day,  so  I  will  return 
to  actual  experiences.  And  the  word  "return" 
reminds  me  that  in  France  as  in  Holland  and 
other   continental   countries,    round    trip   tickets 


i2o  Three  Weeks  in  France 

are  so  much  used  that  the  first  question  a  ticket 
seller  asks  you  after  learning  your  class  and  des- 
tination is  "Retour?"  You  say  "Aller,"  which 
means  "to  go,"  unless  you  desire  a  return  ticket. 

Smoking  is  permitted  in  compartments  marked 
"Fumeurs"  and  in  the  corridor.  Cigarettes  are 
universal.  We  rarely  saw  a  cigar  or  pipe.  Straw 
hats  are  rare  among  the  men. 

Two  women  each  with  an  infant  in  arms  took 
the  two  remaining  seats  in  our  compartment. 
We  are  now  "complet"  plus  two.  We  had  an 
opportunity  to  learn  French  baby  talk,  which  does 
not  differ  greatly  from  what  we  hear  at  home. 
If  there  is  a  universal  language  it  is  the  cooings 
and  murmurings  of  a  young  mother  the  world 
over.  The  boy  baby  was  learning  to  say  "Vive 
la  France"  with  a  droll  baby  salute. 

Our  car  had  nine  compartments  of  eight  places 
each,  so  that  seventy-two  persons  might  ride  in 
it  comfortably. 

Once  you  take  a  seat,  you  can  hold  it  by  leaving 
your  hat  or  the  morning  paper  therein.  Your 
rights  are  sacred  even  in  the  most  crowded  train. 

We  waited  too  long  before  going  to  the  diner 
and  missed  the  table  d'hote.  For  fifty  cents  each 
we  were  served  with  omelette,  meat,  potatoes, 
peas,  cheese  and  plums.  Everything  that  was 
cooked  was  well  cooked  and  seasoned  perfectly. 


Pan  127 

The  water  was  too  warm  to  drink  and  too  cold 
for  shaving  purposes. 

Dogs  are  admitted  to  second-class  compart- 
ments if  their  owners  provide  tickets  for  them. 
Two  shared  our  corridor  to  Poitiers.  They  were 
not  friendly. 

Mail  is  handled  in  France  at  a  minimum  of 
expense  in  the  provinces.  The  mail  messenger 
has  no  other  uniform  or  badge  of  office  than  a 
hat  band  with  the  word  "Postes"  on  it.  There 
are  no  mail  cars  but  a  card  is  hung  up  in  a  second 
class  compartment  window  and  that  compartment 
becomes  the  mail  car  pro  tern. 

At  Poitiers  we  unwrapped  our  Baedeker  of 
Southern  France.  We  were  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Charlemagne's  great  victory  over  the  Moors. 
Coligny  unsuccessfully  besieged  Poitiers  in  1569. 
The  spires  of  Angouleme,  St.  Martial  and  the 
Hotel  de  Ville  form  a  beautiful  sky  line.  It  was 
a  Roman  town  and  is  now  the  center  of  the  paper 
industry. 

It  grew  hotter  as  we  neared  Spain.  We  noted 
many  preparations  for  July  14th,  Bastille  Day. 
Rural  Maypoles  were  decked  with  the  tri-color 
and  with  straw  decorations. 

At  Bordeaux  we  first  noticed  the  tax  of  two 
cents  levied  on  each  railroad  ticket  which  costs 
more  than  two  dollars. 

We  put  our  baggage  in  a  compartment  on  the 


128  Three  Weeks  in  France 

Pau  train,  feeling  safe  because  the  other  occu- 
pants were  two  nuns.  Our  car  was  not  a  cor- 
ridor car,  so  we  walked  along  the  Bordeaux  plat- 
form to  the  "Restaurant  Wagon"  where  we  ate 
dinner  with  more  or  less  uneasiness,  clambering 
down  the  wrong  side  of  the  car  and  running  the 
length  of  the  train  at  Morcenx  where  we  re- 
claimed our  baggage.  The  gentle  little  nuns  were 
quite  worried  about  us,  being  sure  we  had  been 
left  at  Bordeaux.  Although  we  have  never  had 
any  mischances  connected  with  these  dining  car 
episodes  we  are  glad  that  the  corridor  compart- 
ment car  is  replacing  the  other  sort,  making  it 
possible  for  one  to  pass  to  the  diner  without  leav- 
ing the  train. 

The  two  sisters  are  going  to  Lourdes.  They 
are  a  mixture  of  attractiveness  and  repulsive- 
ness.  With  gentle  eyes,  kindly  faces  and  voices 
that  might  win  forgiveness  for  a  sin-sick  soul, 
assuage  the  pain  of  the  sick  room,  or  allay  the 
terrors  of  the  grim  messenger,  they  combine 
shaven  heads  and  horrible  teeth. 

They  no  longer  have  the  right  to  teach  in 
France,  a  drastic  bit  of  remedy  which  one  who 
does  not  know  the  disease  has  no  right  to  pass 
upon. 

We  passed  miles  of  pines  being  cupped  and 
bled  for  a  peculiar  resin  used  in  making  celluloid. 
The  market  for  celluloid  collars  is  very  wide  in 


till  <?    ,1  ■     Sir li. 


ENTRANCE   TO  CASTLE — PAT 


Pau  129 

France.  Well  dressed  traveling  salesmen  wear 
them. 

At  Dax  we  took  a  breather  on  the  platform 
while  the  diner  was  being  detached.  Then  "En 
voiture,"  which  means  "all  aboard,"  and  "Prenez 
garde"  as  the  door  bangs  shut  and  we  sizzled 
southward  again. 

Soon  we  approached  Pau,  where  the  foothills 
of  the  Pyrenees  commence  to  stain  the  map  a 
pale  yellow.  The  city  is  six  hundred  and  seventy 
feet  above  the  sea  and  we  hoped  for  cool  weather. 
We  did  not  get  it.  Our  day  in  Pau  was  the  hot- 
test of  our  journey  and  it  was  also  our  last  hot 
day  in  France. 

B.  selected  a  hotel  that  Baedeker  says  "over- 
looks the  Pyrenees."  That  sounds  as  careless  to 
me  as  the  man  who  lost  his  bass  drum.  An  ex- 
amination of  our  bill  at  parting  showed  that  the 
hotel  overlooked  nothing  but  the  Pyrenees  in 
making  it  out. 

This  is  the  country  of  Henry  of  Navarre,  who 
was  born  at  Pau.  His  mother  Jeanne  d'Albret 
was  a  remarkable  woman.  She  was  a  Calvinist 
and  reared  her  son  in  that  faith.  She  sang  a 
Bearnaise  song  when  giving  birth  to  the  lusty 
young  infant  whose-  father,  Antoine  de  Bourbon, 
carried  him  off  to  rub  his  lips  with  a  clove  of 
garlic  in  order  to  give  him  a  taste  of  the  local 
Jurancon  wine. 


130  Three  Weeks  in  France 

The  boy  was  raised  among  peasants  and  al- 
lowed to  run  barefoot  over  the  hills. 

Our  bus  drove  up  a  zig-zag  street  through 
the  sleeping  city.  It  was  smelly  around  the  de- 
pot and  it  was  not  the  odor  of  sanctity,  although 
most  of  the  people  in  the  waiting  room  were  en 
route  to  Lourdes.  If  the  water  from  the  Grotto 
could  be  piped  into  bath  tubs  it  would  fill  a  longer 
felt  want  than  in  any  other  way. 

Pau  was  the  noisiest  city  of  our  trip.  Our  hotel 
was  on  the  public  square,  with  a  cafe  that  was 
sufficiently  turbulent  when  in  operation,  but  when 
it  closed  it  was  a  bedlam.  Then  a  few  carts  rat- 
tled over  the  stone  pavement.  Many  of  the  horses 
had  bells  on.  An  auto  tooted  past  and  at  5  :$o 
A.  M.  a  troop  of  horsemen  in  white  uniforms 
went  galloping  by. 

All  of  this  was  particularly  distressing  because 
we  had  chosen  Pau  as  a  haven  of  rest  after  an 
eleven  hours'  ride  on  a  hot  day. 

Bordeaux  was  at  the  boiling  point.  We  would 
not  have  stopped  at  Bordeaux  if  it  had  had  four 
cathedrals.  No,  not  if  it  had  not  had  a  single 
cathedral. 

Bordeaux  is  the  Battle  Creek  of  the  low-priced 
wine  industry.  It  gives  the  name  to  wine  bottled 
all  over  western  and  southern  France.  The  Ga- 
ronne, passing  through  it,  looks  like  a  real  river 
with  excellent  docks  and  crowded  with  shipping. 


Pau  131 

Like  all  French  ports  it  was  having  its  troubles 
on  account  of  the  strike  of  "les  dockers." 

Pau  is  a  modern  town  dating  from  the  tenth 
century.  She  only  had  two  celebrated  sons  and 
one  of  them,  Bernadotte,  grew  up  a  Swede,  or 
at  least  Napoleon  handed  him  the  crown  of  Swe- 
den. Neither  Henry  IV  nor  Bernadotte,  how- 
ever, decks  the  square  in  front  of  our  hotel,  but 
a  statue  of  Bosquet  who  distinguished  himself 
in  Algeria  and  the  Crimea  and  was  wounded  at 
the  siege  of  Sebastopol. 

A  whole  family  on  burros  with  turbans  and 
sashes  of  fiery  red  riding  by,  gave  our  street  for 
the  moment  an  Andalusian  tinge.  We  are  not  far 
from  Spain. 

We  rode  on  a  tram  to  the  castle  and  walked 
two  or  three  blocks,  passing  a  school  where  we 
were  arrested  by  a  chorus  of  several  hundred 
children  shouting  the  Marseillaise  at  the  tops  of 
their  young  voices.  They  were  rehearsing  for 
Bastille  Day. 

This  grand  song  of  de  Lisle's  was  born  of  the 
Revolution  and  has  been  taken  into  the  hearts 
of  the  people  very  much  as  Dixie  has  been 
adopted ;  the  former,  the  white  ingot  of  a  soul 
inspired,  the  latter  the  simple  melody  of  African 
slaves.  Verily  the  pedigree  of  a  national  air  is 
as  unaccountable  as  is  that  of  a  national  hero. 
For  while  Dixie  has  never  received  legislative 


132  Three  Weeks  in  France 

sanction  it  is  the  one  tune,  north  or  south,  that 
is  always  greeted  with  shouts  and  followed  by 
applause. 

A  four-ox  team,  all  blindfolded,  picked  its 
way  past  us  as  we  listened  to  the  children  shout- 
ing "March  on."  The  custom  of  blindfolding 
draught  cattle  is  almost  universal  on  the  con- 
tinent. 

At  the  castle  we  sat  for  awhile  on  a  bench 
under  a  massive  sycamore  and  listened  to  the 
Gave  du  Pau  as  its  waters  rushed  under  the  new 
stone  bridge  a  few  hundred  yards  down  stream 
from  the  moss-covered  piers  of  its  predecessor. 
The  hills  across  the  river  were  clothed  in  every 
shade  of  green  from  a  pale  yellow  to  a  darkness 
almost  black. 

There  are  many  grand  old  towers  around  the 
castle  with  interesting  histories  and  poetic  names. 
The  Bird  Tower  was  so  called  because  it  could 
only  be  entered  by  means  of  a  ladder  which  in 
case  of  siege  was  drawn  up  into  the  tower. 

Within  the  castle  we  found  many  interesting 
rooms.  The  Hall  of  the  Guards  contains  two 
pictures  of  Henry  IV,  one  in  the  Tower  of  St. 
Germaine,  the  other  showing  his  assassination  in 
Paris.  In  the  Officers'  Dining  Room  are  statues 
of  Henry  IV  and  Sully  to  whom  he  owed  much 
of  his  solid  and  enduring  fame.     The  rooms  are 


Pau      133 

hung  with  Gobelins  tapestries  representing  Fran- 
cis I  riding  to  the  chase. 

The  magnificent  staircase  is  covered  with  M's 
oft-repeated,  the  initial  of  Margaret  of  Valois, 
to  remind  Henry  to  remove  his  shoes  before  go- 
ing up  stairs.  After  his  divorce  in  1599  he  mar- 
ried Marie  de  Medici,  so  he  did  not  need  to 
change  the  marking. 

At  the  top  of  the  stairs  was  the  waiting  room 
with  more  tapestry  and  a  beautiful  marble-topped 
table  left  here  by  Francis  I  when  he  moved. 

In  the  Reception  Room  six  Catholic  nobles 
were  murdered  by  order  of  Montgomery,  an  of- 
ficer of  Henry's  mother.  It  has  a  fine  fireplace 
and  contains  several  Sevres  vases  of  very  odd 
design.  Birds  are  painted  on  the  china  and  en- 
closed behind  wires.  There  is  also  a  magnificent 
rose  porphyry  table  in  this  room. 

Rather  than  make  this  chapter  read  like  the 
catalogue  of  a  second  hand  furniture  dealer  I 
will  refrain  from  telling  of  all  the  beautiful 
things  we  saw. 

Of  course  we  visited  the  room  in  which  Henry 
IV  was  born  and  looked  at  the  cradle  in  which  he 
was  rocked.  The  latter  is  an  immense  tortoise 
shell. 

In  the  corridors  is  some  Brussels  tapestry  rep- 
resenting scenes  from  the  life  of  John  the  Bap- 


134  Three  Weeks  in  France 

tist,  including  a  very  much  overdressed  Salome, 
according  to  modern  standards. 

At  the  hotel,  after  dinner,  we  poked  three  bil- 
liard balls  around  for  awhile.  If  I  could  describe 
that  layout  and  that  game  I  would  ask  no  other 
reward  than  to  be  permitted  to  do  it.  In  the  first 
place  there  was  no  charge  for  billiards  to  guests. 
That  alone  speaks  volumes  for  the  worthlessness 
of  the  game.  All  of  the  balls  were  white.  Two 
of  them  had  been  "restored."  You  distinguished 
them  by  the  shapes.  In  playing  for  position,  you 
must  take  into  consideration  the  flat  side  of 
the  ball  and  the  depressions  in  the  table.  The 
rails  were  dead,  and  after  striking  them  with  a 
dull  thud,  the  balls  rolled  listlessly  down  the 
patched  cloth  with  the  gentle  purr  of  a  cog  wheel. 
The  counters  were  of  metal  and  affixed  to  the 
sides  of  the  table  so  that  casual  passers  could  not 
see  how  shamefully  low  the  score  was.  The  cues 
were  fishing  rods  with  tips  on  the  small  ends. 
The  chalk  was  blue  with  the  blue  of  approaching 
dissolution,  for  it  was  about  gone.  Two  trian- 
gular fragments  the  size  of  dimes  were  all  that 
remained.  These  had  to  be  rubbed  carefully  over 
the  tips  lest  we  lose  them  under  our  finger  nails. 
Nevertheless  each  of  us  had  a  lot  of  fun  whenever 
the  other  one  shot. 

There  were  many  flies  in  the  dining  room  and 
this  was  true  of  all  French  dining  rooms.     A 


Pau 135 

"swat  the  fly"  campaign  is  badly  needed.  The 
street  was  unbearably  hot  but  our  closed  bedroom 
was  cool. 

We  concluded  to  drive  about  the  baking  city. 
Madame  took  a  horn  from  its  hook,  went  to  the 
hotel  door  and  blew.  The  very  Methuselah  of 
drivers  with  a  horse  that  must  have  known  him 
in  youth  responded  to  the  call.  He  wanted  three 
francs  an  hour.  No.  He  dropped  to  two  and 
a  half.  No.  Finally  he  came  down  to  two,  the 
legal  rate,  but  in  the  interval  we  had  spied  a 
sprightlier  looking  horse,  signaled  its  driver  who 
readily  closed  with  our  two  franc  offer  and  we 
drove  out  along  the  river. 

I  hope  I  am  making  it  clear  that  in  these  strug- 
gles over  twenty  cents  I  was  fighting  your 
battle,  if  you  intend  ever  to  travel  abroad.  I  do 
not  object  to  five  francs  an  hour  if  that  is  the 
tariff.  My  platform  is,  "No  discrimination 
without  expostulation,"  and  I  will  not  pay  more 
than  the  resident  Frenchman  pays  if  I  can  help 
it. 

The  Pyrenees,  forty  or  fifty  miles  away  were 
shrouded  in  haze.  We  drove  past  the  Place 
Royale  decorated  with  a  statue  of — guess! 
Right !  Henry  IV !  We  entered  the  Park  Beau- 
mont where  the  White  Plume  of  Ivry  instantly 
was  eclipsed  by  some  swans  floating  lazily  and 
gracefully  over  the  surface  of  a  pond. 


136  Three  Weeks  in  France 

At  the  entrance  to  the  Park  stands  the  Winter 
Palace  where  summer  vaudeville  is  given.  We 
visited  it  in  the  evening  and  will  tell  you  about 
it  a  page  or  two  farther  on. 

We  were  proud  to  see  that  United  States 
Avenue  was  beautiful  with  a  double  row  of  mag- 
nolia trees,  young  but  like  our  own  republic,  full 
of  promise. 

Everywhere  they  were  stringing  flags,  electric 
lights  and  Japanese  lanterns  for  the  14th  of  July, 
now  only  two  days  away. 

I  went  into  the  Museum.  B.  returned  to  her 
swans  while  I  loafed  through  the  small  but  in- 
teresting collection  of  painting  and  sculptures. 
One  of  the  pictures  illustrates  an  ancient  French 
joke  and  is  called  "Le  Concierge  est  Tailleur." 
Quite  often  the  concierge  is  a  tailor  but  more 
often  he  is  "ailleurs"  (elsewhere)  and  by  carry- 
ing over  the  final  "t"  of  the  "est"  you  get  a  very 
fair  pun  and  one  that  Frenchmen  cursed  by  ab- 
senteeism among  the  concierges  chuckle  over  fre- 
quently. 

One  large  painting  represents  the  birth  of 
Henry  IV,  with  his  mother  in  a  magnificent  ball 
dress  singing  the  Bearnaise  song.  There  are  also 
a  "Henry  IV  at  Notre  Dame"  and  a  "Henry  IV 
Assassination." 

There  are  some  good  marbles  on  the  first  floor. 
There  is  a  real  Bacchante  swagger  to  the  female 


Pau  137 

figure  of  "The  Vine"  and  the  bas  relief  "Phil- 
osophy and  Life"  is  full  of  humor  and  keen 
irony.  Hero  has  pulled  Leander  out  of  the  water 
as  usual,  and  he,  damp  from  the  Hellespont,  is 
reclining  in  her  arms. 

A  bull  fight  was  advertised  at  Bayonne  for 
July  28th.  The  Spanish  proximity  has  resulted 
in  a  considerable  following  for  this  form  of 
cowardly  butchery  in  much  of  southwestern 
France. 

After  leaving  the  Museum  I  awaited  B's  re- 
turn, sitting  in  a  dusty  and  grassless  square  under 
a  dense  shade.  The  tri-color  hung  from  every 
branch.  The  Museum  did  not  look  any  better 
after  longer  acquaintance.  It  is  a  rectangular 
barn  of  a  building,  but  its  collection  of 'paintings 
would  make  an  American  curator's  mouth  water. 

We  drank  a  citron  presse,  which  was  a  lemon- 
ade. If  you  ask  for  lemonade  you  are  handed, 
not  a  lemon,  but  a  bottle  of  lemon  pop. 

While  wringing  the  last  drop  from  the  lemon 
my  mind  reverted  to  our  first  cabby  of  the  day, 
and  at  the  risk  of  protesting  too  much,  I  hastily 
jotted  down  a  few  words.  The  town  was  asleep, 
the  blinds  of  the  shops  were  drawn  and  I  felt 
safe  in  writing  what  I  thought. 

It  affords  me  no  particular  joy  to  witness  the 
groveling  of  a  sixty  year  old  man,  underfed  and 
over-drunk,  but  I  am  actuated  by  purely  patriotic 


138  Three  Weeks  in  France 

motives  in  emphasizing  to  these  drivers  the  fact 
that  Americans  are  not  the  legitimate  prey  of 
crude  extortions.  In  doing  this  I  must  not  only 
work  against  the  stream  of  past  history,  but  of 
present  practice.  This  practice  is  due  more  to 
ignorance  of  the  language  and  fear  of  being 
thought  "cheap"  than  to  any  overwhelming  liber- 
ality on  our  part.  At  least,  let  us  demand  a  little 
finesse  on  the  part  of  the  extortioner  and  not 
submit  to  crude  efforts  to  increase  a  plainly 
printed  tariff  without  explanation  or  apology. 
True,  the  tariff  when  doubled  is  not  high  com- 
pared to  prices  at  home,  but  it  is  not  fair  to  put 
us  on  an  American  basis  unless  the  cost  of  our 
steamer  passage  is  deducted.  As  to  the  admir- 
ation excited  by  the  lavish  tipping  of  "those  rich 
Americans"  we  can  only  draw  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  Frenchman  of  the  hotel-servant  class 
is  one  of  the  best  actors  in  the  world  and  can 
prostrate  himself  before  the  guest  whom  he  may 
be  deriding  five  minutes  afterwards. 

This  is  no  reflection  on  French  sincerity.  It 
is  a  tribute  to  their  art.  It  does  not  take  many 
days  in  France  to  tell  which  trait  is  more  highly 
cultivated.  Tell  a  Frenchman  that  he  is  artistic 
but  insincere  and  he  will  smile  and  shrug  his 
shoulders.  Tell  him  that  he  is  sincere  but  in- 
artistic and  you  have  started  something. 

In  other  words,  the  social  instinct  is  the  French 


Pau  139 

motive  power.  Externals  count  for  everything. 
Their  conscience  is  extraneous.  Like  the  mir- 
rors in  Dutch  windows  it  is  used  to  detect  what 
is  going  on  outside. 

Public  opinion,  custom,  is  everything.  The 
French  are  ruled  by  honor  more  than  duty. 
Hence  their  code  of  morals  while  broader  is  less 
liable  to  be  stretched  beyond  the  lines.  Whether 
this  is  a  cause  or  effect  of  Catholicism  is  difficult 
to  determine.  At  any  rate  it  conforms  to  the 
idea  of  putting  your  spiritual  affairs  into  the 
hands  of  proxies. 

Americans  have  individual  standards  which 
vary  not  only  in  individuals  but  in  the  same  in- 
dividual. Hence  the  American  away  from  home 
behaves  worse  than  when  at  home.  The  Parisian 
does  not.    He  cannot.    He  has  not  the  facilities. 

He  falls  into  sin  easier  but  it  worries  him  less, 
and  he  gets  out  of  it  more  quickly.  His  main 
consideration,  like  the  sailor  sweetheart  of  Poll, 
is  to  have  his  heart  right. 

It  is  a  dangerous  doctrine  and  one  not  for  ex- 
port, although  it  would  pass  the  custom  house 
easily.     It  has  no  duties  attached. 

Brownell  in  "French  Traits"  says :  "What 
would  be  vice  among  us  remains  in  France  social 
irregularity  induced  by  sentiment.  *  *  * 
The  irregularity  may  be  very  great,  and  the 
sentiment  very  dilute,  but  between  these  and  such 


140  Three  Weeks  in  France 

vice  as  social  irregularity  of  the  kind  generally 
means  with  us,  the  distance  is  very  great  and  the 
distinction  very  radical." 

In  other  words,  the  French  can  balance  them- 
selves more  nicely — are  more  Blondin-like — on 
ropes  which  would  form  an  insufficient  footing 
to  an  American. 

They  must  not  be  judged  by  our  standards. 
The  complete  absence  of  divorce  in  a  Catholic 
society  in  France  has  a  tendency  to  substitute  a 
de  facto  evil  for  one  de  legis.  They  are  shocked 
by  our  divorces  without  sufficient  reasons.  We 
are  shocked  by  their  sufficient  reasons  without 
divorces. 

If  marriage  is  understood  by  an  entire  com- 
munity not  to  be  a  contrivance  to  "bind  love  to 
last  forever,"  the  principal  objection  to  binding 
marriage  to  last  forever  disappears. 

In  other  words,  if  you  can  dissolve  the  obliga- 
tions of  matrimony,  the  permanence  of  the  tie 
becomes  less  important.  Thus  anti-divorce  laws 
make  inevitable  in  France  the  evils  which  are  the 
frequent  cause  of  divorce  in  the  United  States. 

The  above  soliloquy  was  started  at  a  sidewalk 
cafe  and  finished  in  our  cooler  quarters  at  the 
hotel.  We  then  rolled  up  the  curtain,  opened 
the  window  and  found  the  temperature  much 
lower  outside  and  arranged  to  attend  a  vaude- 


Pau  141 

ville  performance  at  the  Winter  Palace,  tickets 
ten  cents,  reserved  seats,  five  cents  extra. 

While  on  the  subject  of  prices,  I  will  mention 
that  our  laundry  bill  at  Pau  was  seventy  cents 
for  what  would  have  cost  us  one  dollar  and  ten 
cents  at  home.  Even  after  replacing  the  buttons 
we  were  ahead.  At  that,  the  hotel  made  money, 
for  the  average  daily  pay  of  a  laundress  is  about 
thirty  cents. 

The  Winter  Palace  is  a  glass-enclosed  amphi- 
theatre with  a  temperature  conducive  to  the 
growth  of  almost  anything  except  audiences.  It 
has  a  large  concert  room  in  the  center  of  which 
is  a  table  for  playing  "Little  Horses,"  the  real 
raison  d'etre  for  the  Palace,  as  we  discovered 
later  in  the  evening.  The  theater  is  at  one  side 
of  the  room  and  a  few  people  sat  down  in  front 
of  a  stage  of  fair  proportions  where  a  good  sized 
orchestra  played  popular  airs.  There  were  four- 
teen musicians  and  they  were  better  drilled  than 
dressed.  In  fact,  they  were  almost  shabby.  The 
men  in  the  audience  kept  their  hats  on  until  the 
performance  started.  A  man  passing  in  front 
of  a  seated  lady  would  remove  his  hat  with  an 
inimitable  Gallic  sweep  and  replace  it  on  his 
head  after  sitting  down  beside  her. 

By  nine  o'clock  the  thermometer  had  dropped 
thirty  degrees  and  the  roof  was  creaking  with 
contracting  glass.     At  nine-thirty  the  men  of  the 


142  Three  Weeks  in  France 

orchestra  went  out  for  ten  minutes  and  thirteen 
drinks,  leaving  the  lady  high — and  dry — at  the 
piano.  Then  a  bell  rang  long  and  loud  and  the 
musicians  accompanied  the  audience  into  the 
auditorium,  with  the  audience  only  slightly  in  the 
majority. 

Three  knocks  and  the  curtain  went  up.  They 
always  do  their  knocking  before  the  show  in 
France.  The  first  performer  gave  a  "grapho- 
logue,"  a  talk  on  penmanship,  and  read  the  char- 
acters of  several  who  sent  up  their  signatures. 
Then  three  child  acrobats  did  a  turn.  They  will 
be  tumblers  some  day.  At  present  they  are  little 
more  than  wine  glasses.  Then  there  was  an  ex- 
tended entr'acte  to  give  the  gamblers  a  chance. 

Afterwards,  part  of  the  audience  strolled  re- 
luctantly back  to  listen  to  an  amateurish  young 
woman  try  to  gesticulate  with  her  collar  bone 
while  singing  an  amorous  ditty  or  two.  She 
made  two  unsolicited  returns  to  the  stage  amid 
deep  silences.  Finally  a  Spanish  team,  a  man  and 
a  woman,  did  a  tabloid  opera.  The  husband  left 
his  wife  to  visit  the  city.  The  tempter  came  and 
smothered  her  in  jewels.  The  husband  returned 
and  enraged  by  the  character  of  the  jewelry — 
you  could  see  from  the  back  row  that  it  was 
paste — denounced  her.  She  begged  him  to  kill 
her.  Instead  he  sang  a  tenor  solo  to  her,  the 
coward!    And  the  curtain  descended  between  the 


Pau  143 

afflicted  woman  and  an  innocent  audience  forced 
to  share  her  punishment. 

The  game  of  Little  Horses  has  a  lay-out  sim- 
ilar to  roulette,  but  with  nine  numbers.  The 
one  who  strikes  the  right  number  is  paid  seven 
for  one,  a  percentage  that  makes  cheating  abso- 
lutely unnecessary. 

The  bets  were  single  francs  as  a  rule  and  the 
patrons  seemed  to  be  clerks  and  shop  girls. 

We  listened  awhile  to  the  monotone  of  the 
man  who  rolled  the  ball.  "Marquez  vos  jeux" 
followed  by  "s'en  fait"  as  the  ball  was  rolled 
and  "ne  va  plus"  a  contraction  of  "rien  ne  va 
plus"  as  a  signal  to  stop  betting  on  that  turn. 
There  were  two  croupiers  and  an  intoxicated  pro- 
prietor. It  all  looked  very  wicked  to  us  but  we 
had  not  yet  seen  Monte  Carlo. 


144  Lourdes 


IX 

Lourdes 


0N  hour  and  ten  minutes  from  the  busy, 
commercial  city  of  Pau  is  Lourdes,  the 
I     most  popular  of  modern  shrines.     Its 

discovery  was  as  accidental  as  that  of 
Cripple  Creek  or  buried  Pompeii.  Just  who 
learned  of  the  medicinal  qualities  of  the  spring, 
if  it  has  any,  is  not  known,  but  Bernadette 
Soubirous  was  the  instrument  chosen  to  reveal 
them  to  a  suffering  world.  This  occurred  as 
recently  as  1858.  She  was  a  shepherdess,  four- 
teen years  of  age,  when  she  saw  the  visions 
which  led  to  the  establishment  of  the  shrine.  It 
was  a  success  from  the  beginning.  It  seemed  to 
heal  every  one  but  Bernadette,  who  saw  it  first. 
She  was  a  lifelong  sufferer  from  asthma  and  died 
after  twenty-one  years  of  invalidism  in  1879. 
Mean  way  to  treat  a  press  agent. 

Once  Lourdes  had  a  bastille.  Prisoners  were 
sent  here  by  letters  de  cachet  before  the  Revolu- 
tion.   By  the  way,  these  letters  while  bad  enough 


Lourdes  145 

in  principle  were  not  such  frequent  implements 
of  tyranny  as  popular  writers  would  lead  us  to 
believe.  Not  one  in  a  thousand  was  issued  for 
political  reasons.  They  were  principally  used  by 
parents  to  control  vicious  or  disobedient  sons. 
Much  capital  has  been  made  of  the  fact  that  Mir- 
abeau  was  arrested  by  this  process.  He  was. 
Twice.  Both  times  his  father  requested  it  and 
we  imagine  there  are  fathers  in  the  free  republic 
of  the  United  States  who  would  like  to  revive 
the  custom.  Men  of  low  degree,  mere  bourgeoise, 
frequently  controlled  wayward  sons  and  daugh- 
ters by  their  means.  Husbands  had  wives  ar- 
rested in  their  evil  courses  and  vice  versa.  Most 
of  the  cases  have  much  of  the  intimacy  of  detail 
found  in  modern  divorce  courts.  One  cobbler 
refused  to  be  released  saying  that  he  was  happier 
than  with  his  wife,  so  he  cobbled  his  life  away 
in  prison. 

We  were  a  month  ahead  of  the  grand  rush  at 
Lourdes  which  starts  on  Assumption  Day,  Aug- 
ust 15th,  and  is  participated  in  by  people  from 
all  over  the  world.  It  keeps  up  for  a  month. 
Still  there  were  plenty  of  people  there,  many  of 
whom  did  not  lean  on  miraculous  power  for  sus- 
tenance, judging  by  the  numerous  signs  warning 
the  public  against  pick-pockets.  Isn't  it  a  shame, 
right  here  where  you  can  buy  candles  at  not  over 
five  hundred  per  cent  profit  and  receptacles  for 


146  Three  Weeks  in  France 

healing  water  at  a  similar  rate,  that  pickpockets 
should  try  to  start  a  little  game  of  their  own? 

Modern  plumbing  assists  in  the  miracles  at 
Lourdes  by  conveying  water  to  basins  in  which 
the  sick  bathe.    The  water  is  very  cold. 

In  going  to  Lourdes  we  passed  through  Coar- 
raze  where  Henry  IV  was  brought  up  barefooted 
and  bareheaded,  after  the  manner  of  the  peas- 
ant's children.  We  were  skirting  Spain.  We  saw 
occasional  corn  fields  and  many  fences,  rail,  stone 
and  hedge.  By  the  time  we  reached  Defau  the 
clouds  were  lifting  from  the  mountains  on  our 
right.  After  Montant-Betharrum,  the  scenery 
became  beautiful.  The  gorges  were  black  with 
mist.  At  St.  Pe,  B.  startled  me  by  saying  "Isn't 
that  dam  pretty?"  It  was  only  a  little  cascade 
harnessed  to  a  millwheel.  We  grew  gaspy  and 
rushed  from  side  to  side  of  our  cage  devouring 
snatches  of  scenery  with  our  eyes. 

The  approach  to  Lourdes  was  picturesque. 
We  could  see  hundreds  toiling  up  the  Way  of  the 
Cross.  The  old  castle  is  a  ruin.  We  took  a 
street  car  to  the  church.  Here  we  had  our  first 
encounter  with  the  highly  developed  commercial 
sense  which  pervades  this  shrine  village.  Car- 
fare which  is  two  cents  in  winter  is  three  cents 
from  April  to  October.  The  foreigner  pays  the 
tax.     Our  conductor  smoked  a  cigarette  as  he 


Lourdes  147 

took  our  fare.  The  signal  to  start  the  car  is  one 
ring  and  three  rings  stop  it. 

We  were  broke,  and  feeling  that  we  had  better 
be  healed  financially  before  seeking  other  aid  we 
stopped  at  the  local  shrine  of  the  Credit  Lyonnais 
to  have  an  express  order  cashed.  We  were 
courteously  accommodated  after  signing  the 
order  twice  and  a  receipt  twice,  once  on  each  of 
the  revenue  stamps  affixed  thereto.  The  price  of 
the  stamps,  six  cents,  was  the  only  charge  made. 

We  trammed  to  the  Church  of  the  Rosary, 
very  beautiful  and  very  new.  Several  fine  statues 
decorate  the  Place  in  front,  including  one  of  the 
Virgin  in  blue  robes.  The  interior  of  the  church 
is  built  largely  of  "merci"  tablets. 

They  were  still  working  on  the  massive  stone 
staircase.  Fourteen  men  by  actual  count  were 
in  consultation  over  the  raising  of  a  ladder.  It 
was  evident  that  the  work  would  continue  for 
some  time. 

There  were  no  14th  of  July  decorations  in 
Lourdes.  Probably  the  local  administration 
would  be  glad  to  re-build  the  bastille  if  they  could 
put  a  few  heretical  deputies  therein. 

We  returned  to  the  station  where  we  had 
eight  minutes  in  which  to  reclaim  our  baggage 
and  get  on  the  train.  Nevertheless  our  porter 
obtained  a  light  for  his  cigarette  before  saunter- 
ing slowly  to  the  check  room. 


148  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  visited  Gavarnie  before  completing  our 
inspection  of  Lourdes,  whither  we  returned  two 
days  later. 

Lourdes  needs  no  station  signs.  The  dismal 
array  of  wheeled  chairs  at  the  depot  tells  you 
that  you  are  at  some  place  that  promises  help  to 
the  afflicted. 

On  our  second  visit  we  rode  through  the  nar- 
row streets  banked  in  on  both  sides  by  objects  of 
piety  on  the  shelves  and  objects  of  pity  in  front 
of  the  counters  trying  to  appease  a  wrathful 
Deity  with  gewgaws.  We  walked  to  the  foot  of 
Scala  Sancta.  It  is  forbidden  to  mount  these 
steps  except  on  your  knees.  At  the  top  is  the  first 
Station  on  the  Way  to  the  Cross.  The  figures 
are  of  bronze  and  more  than  life-size.  They  tell 
their  story  eloquently.  Each  of  the  seventeen 
Stations  is  a  highly  dramatic  group  in  bronze. 
You  can  obtain  a  nine  years'  indulgence  if  you 
confess,  climb  up  the  steps  on  your  knees  and 
"prier  aux  intentions  du  Pape."  If  I  misinterpret 
the  sign  I  do  so  in  all  reverence.  It  is  too  pro- 
found a  mystery  to  my  benighted  intellect  even 
for  comment.  The  tenth  station  was  given  by 
the  Catholics  of  Hungary  and  erected  in  19 12. 
The  Calvary  groups  are  especially  impressive. 
There  are  women  praying  at  the  foot  of  the 
Cross  to-day  as  every  day  at  some  cross  for  al- 
most nineteen  centuries. 


Lourdes  149 

We  did  not  intend  to  make  the  Stations.  We 
were  looking  for  the  Grotto.  In  order  to  pre- 
vent your  doing  a  similar  penance,  which  when 
unintentional  cannot  do  you  any  good,  we  will 
tell  you  how  to  reach  the  Grotto  from  in  front  of 
the  church.  Simply  walk  around  to  the  right  of 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  it  is  only  a  minute  or 
two  away.  There  are  no  signs  and  during  the 
dull  season  there  is  not  enough  of  a  procession 
headed  that  way  to  indicate  its  location. 

In  front  of  the  Grotto  with  its  impressive 
statue  of  the  Virgin,  many  were  bathing  hands 
and  temples  in  the  water.  They  buy  small  flasks, 
fill  them  at  the  taps  and  use  the  healing  fluid  to 
their  heart's  content.  There  is  no  charge  for  the 
water  so  used.  All  pray  as  they  let  the  tiny 
stream  trickle  from  the  flasks  onto  their  hands. 
All  use  their  rosaries. 

The  Grotto  is  framed  in  canes,  crutches  and 
trusses  left  or  sent  there  by  the  lame  who  were 
healed.  No  one  could  fail  to  be  impressed  by  the 
scene.  No  normal  minded  man  could  scoff  at 
their  faith  whatever  his  own.  If  one-tenth  of 
the  discarded  crutches  represent  even  temporary 
relief,  little  Bernadette's  visions  were  blessed 
ones.  Perhaps  they  were  only  fooled  into  being 
well,  but  the  illusion  which  fools  you  into  being 
well  is  a  great  deal  better  than  the  hallucination 
that  sometimes  says  you  are  sick. 


i  so  Gavarnie  and  Luz 


X 

Gavarnie  and  Luz 


D~|  N  traveling  from  Lourdes  to  Pierrefitte 
we  required  forty-nine  minutes  to  go 
__  thirteen  miles.  Clearly  we  were  out  of 
the  miracle  zone. 
At  Soum  on  our  left  is  a  steep  railway  which 
B.  in  her  excitement  called  a  "vernacular."  A 
train  of  tiny  light  blue  cars  was  just  entering  a 
tunnel,  so  high  up  that  they  might  have  received 
their  tint  from  rubbing  against  the  sky.  Again 
we  resumed  our  trotting  back  and  forth  from  one 
side  of  the  car  to  the  other.  First  a  mountain 
on  our  right  attracted  us  by  its  bold  shading  and 
then  the  Gave  on  our  left,  made  jealous  by  our 
neglect,  would  change  from  a  placid  stream  to  a 
foaming  torrent  as  it  jumped  from  rock  to  rock, 
kicking  its  feet  in  the  air  like  a  spoiled  child. 

On  one  side  were  foothills  framed  in  moun- 
tains; on  the  other  were  picturesque  washer- 
women wherever  the  stream  leveled  up  for  ten 
yards  pounding  away  at  unusually  tough  buttons 
with   unbounded   zeal.      Just   who   wears   these 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  151 

clothes  when  they  are  clean  is  a  mystery.  As 
Mark  Twain  remarked  of  the  southern  Italians, 
they  seem  to  have  two  sets  of  clothes,  one  to  wear 
and  the  other  to  wash. 

We  sat  down  and  pitied  the  thousands  who 
visit  Paris  every  year  and  ignore  the  "provinces." 
The  mist  softened  everything  except  the  task  of 
taking  pictures.  The  cloud  factories  were  all  at 
work  turning  out  unlimited  draperies  for  the 
bare  hills — and  not  so  bare  either,  for  they  were 
cultivated  to  the  limit. 

We  had  to  wait  at  Angelis  to  let  our  schedule 
catch  up  with  us.  Try  as  he  might,  our  engineer 
could  not  keep  from  gaining  on  it.  We  left 
Lourdes  five  minutes  late,  had  been  back  pedal- 
ing all  the  way  and  still  had  nine  minutes  in 
which  to  make  a  three-mile  dash.  We  probably 
gained  in  speeding  through  the  towns.  The 
engineer  seemed  to  have  adopted  the  practice  of 
the  stagecoach  driver  in  quickening  his  pace 
when  entering  a  village. 

There  were  no  snow-clad  mountains  as  yet 
and  no  water-falls,  but  whole  forests  of  chestnut 
trees. 

At  Pierrefitte  we  changed  to  a  tram  for  Luz. 
This  was  a  forty-six  minute  climb.  The  second- 
class  section  was.  filled  with  passengers  who  got 
off  at  the  first  village,  but  in  the  meanwhile  we 
had  paid   fourteen  cents  each  on  the  tram   for 


152  Three  Weeks  in  France 

seats  in  the  first-class.  Here  we  were  alone.  Our 
compartment  was  the  front  one  and  we  had  a 
splendid  view  of  the  unfolding  scenery  from  the 
platform.  We  crept  along  beside  the  Gave  for 
miles.  This  stream  not  only  furnishes  most  of 
the  scenery  which  drew  us  to  Luz  but  the  power 
which  drew  us  through  the  scenery.  Many  of 
these  streams  have  been  tapped  for  power  and 
the  mountain  .sides  are  striped  with  titanic  ex- 
posed plumbing,  the  pipes  which  harness  this 
great  force  and  bend  it  to  the  will  of  man.  How 
many  tons  of  sparkling  water  does  that  under- 
sized motorman  turn  on  and  off  with  the  pres- 
sure of  a  hand?  He  is  as  indifferent  to  the 
power  he  controls  as  he  is  to  the  beautiful  scenery 
which  to  him  is  a  daily  grind,  widening  and  dim- 
inishing the  distance  between  him  and  his  fire- 
side as  he  is  passed  back  and  forth  like  a  shuttle. 
It  is  a  single  track  road.  It  is  rarely  crossed  by 
the  wagon  road,  so  he  rolled  a  cigarette  and 
smoked  it  as  he  read  a  letter  from  his  sweetheart. 

The  name  Gave  means  "torrent." 

Finally  we  began  our  descent  into  the  valley. 
We  crossed  a  bridge  and  five  minutes  before  we 
reached  Luz,  we  both  said  "Oh!"  It  was  our 
first  glimpse  of  snow  on  the  trip. 

At  Luz  we  hired  a  two-horse  carriage  for  two 
days  for  six  dollars.  This  included  the  feed  of 
the  horses  and  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  the  meals 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  153 

and  lodging  of  the  driver  were  included  in  the 
rate  made  us  at  Gavarnie,  our  destination.  Our 
faultless  French  which  had  never  failed  us  be- 
fore failed  to  make  this  smiling  jehu  compre- 
hend the  hotel  we  desired  to  patronize,  but  while 
nodding  acquiescence  he  took  us  to  the  one  that 
he  considered  best  for  us.  But  I  am  getting 
ahead  of  my  story. 

We  drove  first  to  St.  Sauveur.  The  owner  of 
the  carriage  rode  part  way  with  us,  sometimes 
beside  the  driver,  sometimes  on  the  step,  some- 
times on  foot,  but  always  spouting  voluble 
French  and  arguing  the  rate  question.  The  word 
"spouting"  must  have  originated  in  France,  for 
the  French  cabby  when  excited  is  the  dampest 
talker  imaginable.  Whenever  a  driver  starts  to 
argue  with  me,  I  involuntarily  mutter  "Let  us 
spray,"  and  turn  up  my  coat  collar. 

We  stopped  at  St.  Sauveur,  high  up  in  the 
mountains,  a  beautifully  located  health  resort 
patronized  by  old  ladies  of  both  sexes.  Nothing 
could  be  more  enchanting  than  to  sit  in  this 
glass-enclosed  dining  room,  eat  a  bountiful  and 
well  cooked  dinner  and  talk  of  the  wonderful 
Cirque  and  Cascade  of  Gavarnie.  Our  hopes 
were  high,  naturally,  being  raised  under  glass, 
but  they  never  even  hinted  at  the  grandeur  of 
the  reality. 

It  started  to  rain  as  we  finished  our  dinner 


154  Three  Weeks  in  France 

but  the  driver  with  an  optimism  worthy  of  a 
Dublin  jarvie  (the  best  weather  liars  on  earth 
outside  the  government  prognosticators),  assured 
us  that  it  would  soon  stop. 

If  you  drive  to  Gavarnie,  do  not  fail  to  break 
your  journey  at  St.  Sauveur  and  eat  at  the  Hotel 
des  Bains  to  the  music  of  the  torrent  hundreds 
of  feet  below  you,  and  maybe  the  pretty  waitress 
will  give  you  a  big  purple  fleur  de  lis.  Mind  you, 
we  do  not  promise  the  latter,  but  one  was  given 
to  us. 

The  women  of  the  Bearne  region  wear  black 
stockings  and  low  cut  white  cloth  shoes  often 
with  white  tapes  crossed  and  re-crossed  around 
the  ankle. 

Leaving  St.  Sauveur  we  soon  crossed  the  Pont 
Napoleon  III,  dating  from  i860,  another  mon- 
ument to  that  ill-starred  monarch  whose  perma- 
nent and  practical  benefits  of  this  sort  are 
scattered  all  over  France. 

We  took  a  photograph  of  it.  The  driver 
said,  "Wait,  This  is  nothing.  After  while,  mag- 
nifique !" 

At  the  Gate  of  Spain,  the  thrifty  coachman 
again  begged  us  to  conserve  our  films.  We  told 
him  we  had  five  hundred.  He  tossed  both  hands 
in  the  air  in  well-simulated  amazement. 

Four  little  mills  like  over-grown  coffee  grind- 
ers   levy    passing    tribute    from    a    diminutive 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  155 

mountain  brook.  We  drove  through  twelve  miles 
of  these  delightful  scenes  on  a  smooth,  hard 
road  with  a  spirited  team.  Our  course  lay  be- 
tween green  hills  and  beside  sparkling  waters. 
Fortunately,  it  began  to  rain  hard  as  my  stock 
of  adjectives  ran  low.  We  put  up  the  top, 
drew  the  rubber  apron  over  us  and  drove  along, 
peering  from  under  our  hood  like  a  two-headed 
tortoise. 

Our  driver  was  old,  our  horses  were  fractious 
and  we  passed  many  automobiles  going  into  Luz. 
The  road  is  barely  wide  enough  for  two  vehicles 
and  ours  was  on  the  outside.  A  wall  three  feet' 
high  protected  us  from  a  plunge  of  several  hun- 
dred feet  into  the  Gave.  In  many  places  the  wall 
had  been  washed  away  or,  cheering  thought, 
demolished  by  caroming  carriages. 

At  Gedre  we  paused  to  let  our  steaming  horses 
breathe.  We  were  invited  into  the  inn  but  pre- 
ferred to  bear  the  ills  we  had  than  fly  to  others 
that  we  could  judge  of  by  glimpses  into  a 
crowded  lounging  room.  The  driver  intimated 
that  he  would  not  mind  being  so  wet  if  he 
were  not  so  dry  and  we  attended  to  his  necessities. 

Then  he  donned  the  universal  raincoat  of  the 
Pyrenees — cape  and  hood — and  we  drove  on. 
The  cape  varies  in  length  from  shoulder  to  the 
waist  or  the  heels,  and  the  hood  is  cone-shaped. 
We  passed  many  road  supervisors  similarly  at- 


156  Three  Weeks  in  France 

tired.  Their  business  is  to  keep  open  the  chan- 
nels alongside  the  road,  thus  preventing  wash- 
outs and  overflows.  Usually  this  duty  is  per- 
formed by  women,  or  very  old  men.  They  wear 
wooden  shoes  and  no  stockings. 

At  Gedre  our  driver  borrowed  an  umbrella  of 
the  innkeeper.  It  was  an  easy  umbrella  to  bor- 
row. The  stick  had  been  amputated  midway  of 
the  ribs  and  the  puzzle  was  to  insert  the  frac- 
tured end  into  the  point  of  juncture  of  the  ribs 
and  then  hoist  the  umbrella.  A  young  and  active 
man  sitting  on  a  bench  in  a  quiet  park  on  a 
perfectly  calm  day  might  have  accomplished  it  in 
an  hour.  For  an  old  man,  tremulous  with  age, 
exposure  and  dissipation,  driving  two  skittish 
horses  on  a  narrow  road  in  a  blinding  rain  and 
past  tooting  automobiles,  it  was  an  impossibility. 
But  that  did  not  keep  him  from  trying.  Fre- 
quently he  would  put  the  slippery  reins  under  his 
soggy  right  leg  and  go  to  work  on  his  forlorn 
hope  just  as  we  were  in  the  narrowest  part  of  the 
road.  At  other  times  he  would  lean  as  far  back 
as  he  could  and  try  to  penetrate  our  retreat  and 
expectorate  information  at  us  while  the  team 
was  jogging  along  at  a  five-minute  gait.  But 
notwithstanding  several  pirouettes  right  up  to 
the  retaining  wall  we  finally  reached  Gavarnie  in 
black  darkness  and  amid  a  pouring  rain.     That 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  157 

was  why  we  accepted  the  hotel  forced  on  us  by 
circumstances  and  the  driver. 

We  were  four  miles  from  the  Cirque.  The 
balance  of  the  journey  must  be  made  on  the 
morrow  on  the  backs  of  mules.  Doleful  visions 
of  Killarney  and  the  Gap  of  Dunloe  filled  our 
dreams,  but  like  so  many  troubles  they  vanished 
when  approached. 

The  Cirque  is  a  natural  amphitheatre  two  and 
a  quarter  miles  wide,  the  setting  for  the  cascade 
of  Gavarnie,  thirteen  hundred  and  eighty-five 
feet  high,  the  highest  in  Europe  except  two  in 
Norway. 

In  the  morning  the  mists  had  raised  and  there 
within  a  mile  of  us,  as  though  it  had  been  brought 
by  the  clouds  of  last  night,  we  discovered  a  snow- 
clad  mountain  just  making  its  toilet  and  comb- 
ing back  its  mists.  You  could  almost  hear  it 
declare  that  it  had  washed  its  clouds  the  night 
before  and  could  not  do  a  thing  with  them. 

We  were  over  four  thousand  feet  above  sea 
level.  The  drivers  call  this  a  two  hours'  drive 
from  St.  Sauveur.  Be  not  deceived.  It  took  us 
three  hours  and  our  team  was  not  a  slow  one. 

We  woke  up  on  the  Glorious  Fourteenth.  Vive 
la  Republique!  The  first  celebrants  were  the 
wild  birds.  They  tuned  up  at  five  twenty.  At 
five  thirty  the  French  National  bird,  the  chante- 
cler  began  to  chant.  At  five  forty-five  a  real 
Rocky  Mountain  canary  brayed  soul  fully  under 


158  Three  Weeks  in  France 

our  window.  That  ended  the  inarticulate  chorus. 
At  six  the  chambermaids  took  up  the  refrain. 
At  six  thirty  the  guests  commenced  fantasias  on 
the  electric  bells  and  by  seven  every  one  was 
awake  but  the  Boots. 

This  region  is  very  like  South  Cheyenne  Can- 
yon. The  murmur  of  distant  cascades  sounds 
like  rain  on  forest  leaves  and  lulls  you  into  deep 
slumber. 

I  walked  to  the  point  where  the  Cascade  can 
be  seen.  I  am  not  emotional,  but  my  eyes  filled 
with  tears  at  the  grandeur  of  the  sight.  The 
early  mist  had  broken  away  from  the  falls  and 
formed  a  frame  about  them.  Above,  the  solid 
masses  of  white  snow  lying  against  the  black 
rocks,  constitute  an  inexhaustible  water  supply. 
The  air  was  clear  and  later  the  mists  rose  and 
the  sun  shone  brightly. 

Yesterday's  barometer  pointed  to  "Very  dry" 
as  we  alighted  from  our  dripping  carriage,  and 
we  scoffed  at  it.     To-day  we  apologize. 

The  Cirque  looked  a  scant  half  mile  away.  It 
was  in  reality  four  miles.  The  magnificent  pro- 
portions dwarfed  everything. 

The  village  of  Gavarnie  was  going  about  its 
duties.  The  children  were  preparing  to  cele- 
brate, unmoved  by  what  to  them  is  a  daily  view. 
But  the  colossal  impertinence  of  fireworks  in  the 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  159 

presence  of  the  Cascade  and  Cirque  of  Gavarnie 
struck  us. 

The  Gave,  itself  a  dream  picture  in  its  white 
foam  and  green  pools,  was  neglected  in  the  pres- 
ence of  grander  things.  Every  hillside  was 
threaded  with  cascades  as  a  result  of  the  rains 
of  the  day  before.  Two  burros  stood  immovable 
at  the  side  of  a  torrent  and  at  another  point  where 
the  angle  softens  to  say  thirty  degrees,  women 
were  washing  clothes  in  the  stream.  Profan- 
ation ! 

A  life-size,  death-like  crucifix  guards  the  street 
to  our  hotel.  This  is  a  center  for  mountain 
climbers  and  many  such  are  buried  in  the  little 
cemetery  in  Gavanie.  The  hotel  hat  rack  had 
several  alpenstocks  reposing  in  it. 

Our  driver  was  up,  bright  and  early,  dried 
without,  but  still  boiling  within.  We  told  him 
we  would  not  need  him  until  after  lunch. 

We  slept  under  two  blankets,  a  quilt  and  our 
rain  coats.  They  wisely  put  heavy  mattresses 
under  you  in  this  climate.  Thus  far,  we  had  not 
slept  in  an  uncomfortable  bed  in  France. 

If  you  have  binoculars  or  field  glasses,  take 
them  to  Gavarnie.  You  will  have  more  need  for 
them  there  than  on  shipboard. 

After  breakfast  we  bargained  for  two  burros, 
Navarre  and  Baptiste  by  name.  We  rode  out 
along  a  bridle  path  and  followed  the  dry  bed  of 


160  Three  Weeks  in  France 

a  torrent  to  the  Cirque.  The  ride  was  indescrib- 
able. You  simply  must  see  it.  We  rode  toward 
the  Cascade  all  the  time.  Never  for  a  minute 
was  it  out  of  our  sight.  It  dwarfed  what  would 
otherwise  be  magnificent  waterfalls.  Many 
which  dropped  four  or  five  hundred  feet  and  dis- 
solved into  rainbows,  scarcely  wetting  the  ground, 
were  almost  unnoticed. 

Baptiste,  my  bird  of  passage,  went  around 
corners  and  past  rocks  with  a  reckless  "sauve 
qui  peut"  which  utterly  disregarded  my  pres- 
ence on  his  back.  Consequently  I  was  emblaz- 
oned with  the  tri-color  on  several  parts  of  my 
anatomy.  Navarre  was  the  pacemaker.  Instead 
of  a  white  plume  she  bore  aloft  two  saffron  ears, 
easily  visible  from  any  point  in  the  procession. 
Each  had  a  driver.  B.  had  requested  a  slow 
beast,  and  it  would  be  a  happy  world  did  every 
one  get  what  he  wanted  as  completely  as  B.  did. 
Most  of  Navarre's  hair  had  been  pushed  off  her 
hind  quarters  by  the  donkey-boy. 

What  with  shouting,  beating  and  pushing  we 
finally  reached  our  destination,  the  Hotel  du 
Cirque,  and  ordered  drinks  all  around,  except  for 
Baptiste.  That  intelligent  beast  was  well  named 
for  he  loitered  amid-stream  every  time  we  crossed 
a  brook  and  drank  at  every  opportunity.  He  also 
cropped  grass  in  places  where  a  sheep  would 
starve,  whenever  we  stopped  to  take  a  photo- 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  161 

graph.  Altogether  he  was  a  selfish  beast  and 
as  I  inventory  my  fading  tri-colors  I  cannot  re- 
gret the  termination  of  our  association. 

After  lemonade,  I  sat  down  beside  a  fat,  black 
snail  four  inches  long  which  must  have  passed 
us  on  our  way  to  the  Cirque,  and  watched  the 
long-horned  yellow  cows  grazing  on  steeps  that 
would  puzzle  a  burro  to  negotiate.  These  cows 
wear  iron  shoes  like  horse-shoes  that  help  them 
cling  to  the  sloping  pastures. 

We  returned  to  Gavarnie  more  rapidly  than 
we  left  it.  Going  home  the  burros  needed  brakes 
rather  than  goads.  The  drivers  call  "sto"  when 
they  mean  "stop,"  and  "harree"  for  "hurry,"  two 
obvious  adaptations  from  the  English.  They 
hastened  to  explain  that  the  words  were  not 
French  but  patois. 

The  grandeur  of  our  surroundings  and  the 
fact  that  it  was  the  holy  Sabbath  made  us  neglect 
to  confirm  the  price  made  by  the  hotel  porter  for 
the  mules.  Consequently  our  four  franc  ride 
cost  us  five  francs  each.  It  was  worth  all  it  cost 
but  one  hates  to  be  "had"  as  the  English  say. 

The  farmhouses  about  Gavarnie  are  quite  like 
those  in  Switzerland  except  that  abundant  grass 
makes  thatched  roofs  more  the  rule.  The  whole 
landscape  is  a  Burbanking  of  Switzerland  and 
Killarney.  It  has  the  green  of  Ireland  set  in  the 
snows  of  the  Pyrenees. 


1 62  Three  Weeks  in  France 

The  Cirque  is  a  stream  of  grandeur  and  color. 
You  have  to  force  yourself  to  accept  the  state- 
ment that  it  is  over  two  miles  wide.  The  moun- 
tains over  which  is  draped  the  Grand  Cascade  are 
strongly  reminiscent  of  the  Grand  Canyon  of  the 
Colorado  but  without  the  overwhelming  colors 
of  the  latter.  You  get  more  of  that  coloring  on 
the  sides  of  the  mountain  north  of  Gavarnie  as 
you  return  to  the  village. 

Large  ladies  or  old  ones  or  unskillful  eques- 
triennes should  ask  for  a  "fauteuil"  in  place  of 
a  sidesaddle.  That  is  a  box  which  transforms 
the  donkey  into  a  jaunting  car  on  stilts.  It  is 
suspended  from  the  side  of  the  tiny  beast  and  a 
small  burro  with  a  fat  lady  barnacled  on  one 
side  of  him  looks  like  an  ant  taking  home  a 
lump  of  sugar.  No  creature  less  sinewy  and 
shameless  than  a  burro  would  carry  such  a  bur- 
den. 

It  was  the  fete  day  of  the  son  and  heir  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  Hotel  du  Cirque.  He  was  three 
years  old  and  will  probably  cherish  the  illusion 
for  some  time  that  all  France  is  celebrating  his 
birthday  on  each  recurring  14th  of  July.  He 
looked  a  little  soldier  as  he  stood  erect  for  his 
picture. 

After  lunch  and  a  musical  "bon  voyage"  from 
the  women  running  the  Gavarnie  hotel,  we 
started  on  our  drive  back  to  Luz.     Of  course, 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  163 

we  dodged  two  or  three  servants  whom  we  had 
never  seen  before,  after  tipping  every  one  who 
had  been  of  the  slightest  service  to  us. 

We  drove  past  a  magnificent  bronze  figure  of 
Count  Henry  Russell,  seated  on  the  unquarried 
rock  of  the  mountain  side.  He  was  born  at 
Toulouse  in  1834  and  died  at  Biarritz  in  1909,  a 
traveler,  explorer  and  scientist.  The  memorial 
was  erected  by  the  Alpine  Club  and  is  a  mag- 
nificent conception  by  Leroux. 

Nothing  could  surpass  the  sparkling  perfection 
of  our  return  to  Luz.  The  sun  was  bright  and 
the  mountain  air  was  tonic  in  its  effects.  The 
clearer  light  brought  out  new  beauties  in  the 
Gave  which  romped  and  gamboled  at  our  side  all 
the  way. 

The  natural  formations  in  this  region  are  mar- 
velous, culminating  in  one  grand  sweep  of  rocks, 
covering  acres  of  mountain  side  and  splendidly 
named  "Chaos."  Here,  like  clods  turned  up  by 
a  plowshare,  are  gigantic  boulders,  larger  than 
cottages,  leaning  against  each  other  in  all  sorts 
of  fantastic  attitudes. 

Our  road  zig-zagged  in  a  triple  terrace  down 
into  the  valley  to  Gedre,  where  our  driver  re- 
turned the  umbrella  with  as  profuse  thanks  as 
though  it  had  saved  him  from  a  drenching. 

Near  St.  Sauveur  a  slender  cross  at  the  top  of 
a  mountain  caught  our  eye.     It  marks  the  spot 


164  Three  Weeks  in  France 

where  a  few  years  ago  a  seventeen  year  old 
shepherdess  fell  from  the  cliffs  and  was  killed. 
She  is  buried  near  where  she  fell. 

We  stayed  all  night  in  Luz  and  before  dinner 
walked  out  to  the  old  church  founded  by  Temp- 
lars and  having  portions  dating  from  the 
twelfth  century.  The  sacristan  (early  Victor- 
ian) showed  us  the  tiny  museum  with  fragments 
of  old  crucifixes  and  ancient  statuettes.  Two  old 
paintings  are  shown  but  time  and  a  leaky  roof 
have  almost  obliterated  their  outlines.  Part  of 
one  of  the  old  doors  is  Roman. 

When  one  looks  down  the  main  street  in  Luz, 
the  mountain  which  closes  the  prospect  is  so 
steep  that  it  looks  like  a  drop  curtain.  We 
planned  to  use  it  as  a  guide  when  returning  to 
the  hotel  but  found  that  there  were  mountains 
on  every  side.  We  were  not  lost,  just  "bewild- 
ered," and  eventually  found  the  hotel. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  mist  was  creeping  down 
the  valley  like  an  army  with  banners  and  soften- 
ing the  landscape  before  obliterating  it. 

On  the  main  street  a  small  booth  was  being 
hung  with  lanterns  and  the  tri-color  in  prepar- 
ation for  speeches  and  music  in  the  evening. 

We  sat  on  the  balcony  of  our  hotel  and 
watched  the  scenes  in  the  street.  A  fight  started 
in  the  cafe  opposite  between  a  waiter  and  a 
guest.     A  bunch  of  boys  ran  out.    The  two  men 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  165 

scuffled.  Neither  attempted  to  strike  the  other. 
Both  screamed  at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  Each 
seemed  anxious  to  quit.  Finally  they  let  go,  the 
guest  resumed  his  seat,  and  the  fight  was  over. 

All  Luz  was  celebrating  the  day.  How?  By 
walking  up  and  down  the  main  street  arm  in 
arm  from  two  to  five  abreast.  Here  and  there 
a  quiet  party  sat  at  a  table  on  the  sidewalk 
drinking  wine.  A  flock  of  sheep  created  a  tem- 
porary diversion.  Occasionally  an  individual  fire- 
cracker was  exploded.  Fearing  that  if  we 
watched  the  scene  of  gayety  too  long  we  would 
not  sleep  a  wink  we  drew  the  blinds  and  retired 
to  dreamless  slumber. 

We  were  up  at  six  the  next  morning  just  to 
enjoy  the  clear  air.  There  was  not  a  shred  of 
vapor  on  the  mountain  side.  Sometimes  the 
sun  in  hurriedly  gathering  up  a  mist  overlooks  a 
piece  hiding  in  a  hollow  or  tears  off  a  fragment 
and  leaves  it  hanging  on  a  bush.  Not  so  this 
morning.     The  valley  shone  as  if  scoured. 

The  old  practice  of  sticking  extras  into  a  hotel 
bill  seems  to  have  disappeared  in  France,  or  else 
our  perfect  accent  deceived  them.  For  the  first- 
town  or  two  when  told  the  price  of  a  room  we 
would  ask  if  the  rate  included  light  and  service. 
They  were  so  evidently  pained  and  surprised  by 
our  caution  that  we  dropped  the  practice.  There 
were  no  extras  added  at  any  place  except  Cham- 


1 66  Three  Weeks  in  France 

onix,  other  than  legitimate  ones  such  as  mineral 
water.  Wine  was  free  at  all  hotels  and  served  in 
a  carafe  which  was  kept  filled  and  no  questions 
asked. 

We  shattered  another  tradition  of  French 
travelers.  With  two  exceptions  we  have  drunk 
the  city  water  and  found  it  excellent.  We 
ordered  mineral  water  at  Havre  unnecessarily 
and  simply  because  we  were  new  to  the  country. 
The  second  exception  was  at  Luz,  of  all  places. 
With  mountain  torrents  clear  and  cold  roaring 
in  our  ears  we  were  given  what  tasted  like  stale 
well  water.  When  in  doubt,  we  ordered  Evian 
water,  or  if  we  wanted  it  charged  (not  in  the  bill 
but  in  the  bottle),  we  asked  for  Apollonaris, 
which  is  standard  the  world  over. 

We  returned  to  Pierrefitte  by  the  same  little 
trolley.  This  time  the  second-class  compartment 
was  in  front  and  empty,  so  we  took  it.  We 
waited  an  hour  for  our  train  to  Lourdes  and 
watched  the  stream  of  people  passing  through 
the  station.  Pierrefitte  is  quite  a  trolley  center. 
The  majority  of  travelers  went  to  Cauterets  but 
a  good  many  climbed  into  the  train  we  had  just 
left  and  went  to  Luz. 

Away  up  in  the  mountains,  a  thousand  feet 
in  the  air,  is  a  tiny  chapel,  built  very  near  head- 
quarters.   We  discussed  the  relative  probabilities 


Gavarnie  and  Luz  167 

of  its  being  Catholic  or  Protestant  and  finally 
agreed  that  whatever  it  is,  it  is  high  church. 

We  took  a  ride  through  the  narrow  winding 
streets  of  the  town,  trusting  to  luck  to  see  some- 
thing, and,  as  usual,  having  our  faith  rewarded. 
Chained  in  the  yard  of  a  hotel,  B.  spied  a  magni- 
ficent white  dog  of  the  Pyrenees.  We  stopped. 
The  driver  cracked  his  whip  three  times.  A 
smiling  girl  came  out  and  at  our  request  led  the 
massive  brute  into  a  sunny  place  for  his  picture. 
Mademoiselle  refused  a  tip  but  said  she  would 
prize  a  copy  of  the  photograph  if  it  came  out 
well.  You  may  judge  for  yourselves.  It  is  the 
frontispiece. 

At  the  station  we  tried  in  vain  to  buy  a  ticket. 
We  had  to  wait  until  twenty  minutes  before 
train  time.  The  driver  who  wanted  five  dollars 
to  take  us  to  Lourdes  in  a  carriage  an  hour  be- 
fore dropped  to  three  dollars  as  train  time 
approached  but  he  was  too  late.  The  Cascade  of 
Gavarnie  has  nothing  on  these  drivers  when  it 
comes  to  quick  drops. 

The  station  agent  tried  to  short-change  us  by 
a  dodge  that  has  grown  familiar.  They  coin  in 
France  a  lead  five  cent  piece — 25  centimes — • 
about  the  size  of  a  franc  and  try  to  pass  it  on 
strangers  for  a  franc. 


1 68  Toulouse 


XI 

Toulouse 


1  ^H  ETWEEN  Luz  and  Lourcles  and  between 

m^  Lourdes  and  Toulouse  farming  is  like 
■  i^l  cultivating  a  steep  awning.  Where  it 
is  terraced  it  resembles  cutting  wheat 
on  broad  steps.  Single  strips  are  like  shelves. 
Wheat  is  not  piled  up  in  shocks  but  laid  flat  on 
the  ground  and,  I  imagine,  spiked  there.  Of  this 
last  detail  I  am  not  certain. 

Leaving  Lourdes  we  had  a  box  lunch  consist- 
ing of  ham,  chicken,  a  tin  of  pate  de  fois  gras, 
bread,  butter,  salt,  vichy,  wine,  two  apricots  and 
a  small  bottle  of  brandy,  with  a  glass,  plate, 
knife,  fork,  and  cork-screw — all  for  seventy 
cents. 

Tarbes,  our  first  stop,  was  occupied  by  the 
English  from  1360  to  1406.  During  the  relig- 
ious wars  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  was  occu- 
pied by  other  troubles. 

After  leaving  Tarbes  our  long  train  with  two 
engines  toiled  up  a  very  steep  grade  and  over  a 
viaduct  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  high.     All 


Toulouse  169 

the  way  to  Capvern  we  stood  in  the  corridor  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  peaks  which  Baedeker  says 
are  on  our  right,  but  they  were  obscured  by 
mists.  Many  passengers  alighted  at  Capvern  for 
the  baths.  Baths  are  very  popular  in  France  in 
case  of  sickness. 

After  Lannemezan — sounds  like  a  college  yell 
— we  began  to  catch  glimpses  of  snow-clad  moun- 
tains on  our  right  and  the  scenery  grew  more 
beautiful.  We  crossed  the  Garonne  and  entered 
Montrejeau.  Our  narrative  here  threatened  to 
become  a  succession  of  adjectives  as  we  followed 
the  river. 

As  a  diversion,  the  Frenchman  and  his  wife, 
our  fellow  passengers,  lost  an  important  part  of 
their  luggage.  The  cork  came  out.  We  started 
to  salvage  our  suit  cases  which  were  under  the 
seats  but  figured  that  there  was  enough  dust  on 
the  floor  to  dike  the  rising  tide;  so  we  sat  fas- 
cinated and  watched  its  advance  and  wondered 
how  long  it  would  be  before  the  owners  would 
note  their  loss.  They  finally  did,  but  beyond  a 
philosophic  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  they  showed 
no  sign  of  disturbance. 

St.  Gaudens  is  a  clean  little  station.  Beyond 
it  six  or  seven  miles  we  saw  on  the  right  the 
ruins  of  Chateau  Montespan.  Then  we  crossed 
the  river  again  and  passed  the  ruins  of  Chateau 
de  Montpezat.     The  scenery  became  less  inter- 


170  Three  Weeks  in  France 

esting  as  we  turned  north  and  the  train  seemed 
eager  to  hurry  through  it.  We  went  at  the  rate 
of  a  mile  a  minute. 

At  Muret,  Marshal  Niel  was  born  in  1802. 
He  was  chief  of  engineers  at  the  siege  of  Sebas- 
topol  and  had  a  rose  named  for  him. 

When  we  reached  Toulouse,  a  cab  took  us 
promptly  to  the  Grand  Hotel  des  Bains  which 
looked  cheaper  than  we  really  wanted.  How- 
ever they  gave  us  a  room  on  the  garden  which 
promised  well,  but  shortly  after  our  arrival  the 
garden  blossomed  out  into  laundry. 

Toulouse  is  a  good  sized  city  with  about  150,- 
000  people.  It  was  an  important  center  centuries 
before  Rome  invaded  Gaul.  It  became  Christian 
in  the  third  century  and  French  in  the  thir- 
teenth. It  has  been  the  boiling  point  of  much 
of  the  religious  trouble.  After  Bartholomew's 
in  1572,  Charles  IX  ordered  the  killing  extended 
to  other  cities,  including  Toulouse. 

We  visited  the  church  of  St.  Sernin,  a  beauti- 
ful Romanesque  edifice  with  rounded  arches. 
Within  it  is  a  Byzantine  figure  of  Christ  on  the 
Cross.  It  is  of  wood,  but  time  has  made  it  as 
hard  and  black  as  iron.  It  was  rather  difficult 
to  find  but  we  finally  located  it  in  one  of  the 
north  chapels.  Then  we  enjoyed  the  miseri- 
cordes.  They  were  not  made  for  enjoyment  but 
we  could  not  help  it.     Those  old  wood  carvers 


mmimmm^M^Am 


CHI'liCII    UK    ST.    SKHXIN"      Turi.orsK 


Toulouse  171 

were  the  cartoonists  of  their  age  and  so  long  as 
they  were  graphic  and  forcible  they  did  not  care 
whether  they  were  polite  or  not.  One  carving 
represents  a  pig  in  a  pulpit  and  is  labeled  "Calvin 
pore."  They  also  showed  us  the  crucifix  of  St. 
Dominique,  the  founder  of  the  great  order  of 
Dominicans.  It  has  an  authentic  history  back  to 
12 1 3.  The  church  has  a  fine  organ  and  beautiful 
chimes. 

We  walked  down  the  rue  du  Taur  to  the  Place 
du  Capitole,  resplendent  in  bunting.  The  Hotel 
de  Ville  faces  the  Place  on  one  side.  It  has 
been  almost  entirely  rebuilt  and  the  effect  is  that 
of  a  modern  building. 

The  Church  of  the  Jacobins  was  undergoing 
restoration.  Its  floor  was  up  and  we  walked 
about  on  Mother  Earth.  This  gave  an  appear- 
ance of  added  height  to  its  really  high  nave. 
There  were  benches  grouped  around  the  pulpit 
and  service  is  "uninterrupted  during  altera- 
tions." 

A  few  old  windows  remain,  giving  one  a  hint 
of  its  former  magnificence.  The  tower  of  St. 
Sernin  suggests  the  belfry  at  Pisa.  The  tower 
of  the  Jacobins  is  more  ornate.  It  is  octagonal 
and  bristles  with  gargoyles. 

The  cloister  and  chapel  are  shown  in  con- 
nection with  the  church.  The  old  frescoes  in  the 
Salle  Capitulaire  have  nearly  faded  away. 


172  Three  Weeks  in  France 

Our  hotel  did  not  serve  meals,  so  we  dined  at 
a  sidewalk  cafe  and  had  a  good  dinner  at  fifty- 
five  cents  each.  The  return  ride  to  the  hotel  on 
a  tram  cost  two  cents  each. 

The  only  theater  open  in  this  modern,  busy 
city  was  a  moving  picture  show.  In  honor  of 
the  Fourteenth,  tickets  to-night  are  half  price. 
The  Fourteenth  fell  on  Sunday,  hence  a  two  days' 
celebration.  The  performance  starts  at  eight 
forty-five. 

The  ladies  of  Toulouse  dress  in  the  latest 
modes,  including  a  hobble  skirt  that  is  all  Parisian 
and  not  a  bit  Toulouse. 

We  slept  very  little  in  the  Hotel  des  Bains. 
Hotels  in  France  render  a  dictagraph  unneces- 
sary. Every  sound  is  transmitted  through  their 
thin  partitions  with  startling  clearness.  The  man 
in  Number  8  had  a  bad  cough  and  an  alarm 
clock.  The  latter  would  be  useful  to  Gabriel  if 
there  are  any  heavy  sleepers  on  Resurrection 
Morn.  It  went  off  at  five  and  from  that  until 
seven  the  old  man  paddled  around  in  creaky  slip- 
pers, loose  at  the  heel,  over  a  bare  floor. 

Wouldst  find  our  hotel,  or  mayhap  avoid  it? 
Follow  the  Allee  Lafayette,  which  is  not  an  alley 
at  all,  but  a  regular  boulevard  with  trees  shading 
the  lovely  gravel  where  the  grass  ought  to  be. 
Gravel  is  not  so  soft  as  grass  nor  so  green, 
but  it  is  easier  to  keep  trimmed  and  does  not  re- 


Toulouse  173 

quire  so  much  water.  It  is  the  dandruff  on  Dame 
Nature's  scalp.  After  you  cross  the  Boulevard 
Strasburg  you  come  to  a  widening  of  the  Allee 
into  the  Place  Lafayette.  This  a  circle.  Follow 
its  circumference  until  you  reach  the  Street  of 
Five  Days — so  called  because  they  gather  the 
garbage  therefrom  every  five  days.  Watch  care- 
fully the  slight  angle  of  departure  made  by  the 
rue  Labeda,  for  it  is  on  the  latter  that  our  hostelry 
faces.  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  the 
hotel,  except  the  man  in  Number  8  and  he  prob- 
ably will  not  live  long.  If  his  cough  does  not 
carry  him  off,  some  one  in  Number  9  (our  room) 
unrestrained  by  softening  wifely  influence  will 
assassinate  him.  Then  peace  will  reign  again  at 
the  Hotel  des  Baines  et  des  Bains  Detemps 
Reunis.  It  has  a  large  second  and  third  floor 
frontage  on  the  Place  Lafayette.  It  needs  it  in 
order  to  hold  its  full  name.  It  serves  no  meals 
except  breakfasts  and  those  in  your  room. 

We  trammed  to  the  rue  Alsace  Lorraine,  using 
it  as  a  point  of  departure.  We  asked  a  gentle- 
man to  tell  us  the  proper  car  for  the  Museum. 
He  pointed  out  the  building  four  or  five  blocks 
away  and  suggested  that  we  walk.  We  said  that 
half  a  mile  looked  larger  than  four  sous  to  us 
and  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  our  extrava- 
gance. 

Glory  be !  They  would  let  us  into  the  Museum 


174  Three  Weeks  in  France 

at  nine.  We  had  been  told  that  it  did  not  open 
until  noon.  It  still  lacked  half  an  hour  of  the 
opening  time  so  we  jumped  on  a  trolley  at  ran- 
dom and  rode  to  the  end  of  the  line.  We  passed 
a  police  station  and  a  monument  to  Dupuy  and 
plunged  into  the  frayed  selvage  of  the  city.  We 
crossed  the  Garonne  with  a  string  of  washer- 
women gazing,  Psyche-like,  into  the  water.  The 
river  here  has  no  visible  current.  Our  street  is 
temporarily  lifted  above  its  neighbors  by  a  via- 
duct. We  passed  a  horse  butcher  shop  display- 
ing the  usual  sign  of  a  horse's  head  and  near  by 
— conveniently  near — a  cavalry  parade  ground 
and  field  gymnasium  for  soldiers;  out  past  the 
octroi  and  into  the  country.  Returning,  the 
octroi  man  looked  at  a  basket  carried  by  an  old 
lady  and  accepted  her  statement  that  it  contained 
nothing  contraband. 

We  had  no  key  to  the  street  car  fares  in 
Toulouse.  Sometimes  we  paid  two  cents  each 
and  sometimes  two  and  a  half  cents.  Possibly 
there  are  two  classes.  We  had  not  enough  in- 
vested to  warrant  an  investigation. 

We  sat  for  awhile  in  the  garden  of  the 
Museum.  There  is  a  jolly  statue  of  a  fat  man  in 
an  apron  standing  beside  a  half  overturned  chair. 
The  guard  said  he  was  a  poet.  Perhaps,  but  he 
looked  too  well  fed. 

At  my  right  as  I  sat  facing  the  Museum  is 


Toulouse  175 

the  square  tower  of  the  badly  damaged  church  of 
St.  Etienne.  The  rose  window  dates  from  1230 
and  was  transplanted  to  the  present  tower  in  1444. 
The  rest  of  the  building  is  too  new  to  mention, 
dating  from  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth 
centuries. 

In  the  museum,  we  walked  straight  from  the 
front  door  through  to  the  cloister,  for  this  build- 
ing was  erected  by  the  Augustines  for  a  convent. 
The  cloister  has  beautiful  double  columns. 
Around  the  walls  are  thirteen  apostles  and  saints 
rendered  coy  looking  by  a  curious  tilting  of  their 
heads. 

There  are  many  exhumed  and  ancient  sarcoph- 
agi lying  about.  Lying  about  what  ?  Their  age, 
I  imagine. 

The  Grand  Gallery  is  filled  with  antique  frag- 
ments. We  climbed  the  stairs  to  the  picture  gal- 
lery. It  is  well  lighted.  Oudry's  representa- 
tion of  a  hunting  scene  which  includes  Oudry  at 
an  easel  painting  the  picture,  is  at  least  unique. 
There  is  also  a  terrific  "Christ  between  the 
Thieves"  by  Rubens. 

In  Room  2,  "The  Last  Dryad"  would  have 
been  starred  if  Rubens  had  painted  it.  The 
warm  flesh  tints  and  the  glistening  bronze  gold 
hair  would  have  been  as  far  beyond  him  as  a 
normal  infant  was.     It  is  by  Guay. 

Also  notice  Number   1619,  a  church  interior 


176  Three  Weeks  in  France 

by  de  Pibrac,  with  a  young  girl  in  white  taking 
the  collection.  In  Room  1,  look  at  Rigaud's 
portrait  of  Philippe  when  duke  of  Chartres. 

It  is  not  a  large  museum,  but  it  is  large 
enough.  When  we  were  there,  it  housed  a  tame 
pigeon  which  is  probably  pot  pie  long  ere  this, 
but  which  made  our  visit  memorable  by  permit- 
ting us  to  stroke  its  back  as  it  perched  on  the 
fat  finger  of  the  doorkeeper. 

In  the  Credit  Lyonnais  we  thought  the  man 
who  took  my  express  order  had  made  a  mistake 
of  forty  francs  in  our  favor.  But  the  seventh 
man  through  whom  the  document  passed  caught 
the  error  before  it  reached  the  paying  teller. 
Then  the  whole  thing  had  to  be  done  over  again. 
The  messenger  carried  the  paper  to  each  window, 
showed  it  to  all  the  tellers  and  book-keepers, 
then  took  it  up  stairs  where  a  board  meeting  was 
in  session.  The  directors  looked  it  over  care- 
fully. Then  the  janitor  was  called  in  and  said  it 
looked  all  right  to  him.  After  taking  the  name 
of  my  hotel  (I  gave  them  a  good  hotel)  I  re- 
ceived my  money  less  ten  cents  to  apply  on  the 
French  national  debt.  Getting  through  an  Illi- 
nois Central  turnstile  is  a  simple  operation  com- 
pared to  cashing  an  express  order  in  the  Credit 
Lyonnais. 


Carcassonne  177 


1 


XII 

Carcassonne 

E  had  confidence  enough  in  ourselves  and 
the  railroad  system  of  France  by  this 
time  to  put  our  baggage  into  a  com- 
partment and  go  into  the  diner.  At 
these  table  d'hote  meals,  all  must  start  even 
whether  in  hotel,  restaurant,  or  dining  car. 

We  noted  an  illustration  of  the  French  love 
for  dainty  appearances.  Our  waiter  took  the 
bread  from  the  basket,  placed  it  on  the  dirty 
cushion  of  the  car  seat  while  he  artistically  ar- 
ranged the  napkin  lining  the  basket.  Then  he 
replaced  the  bread. 

Avignonet  has  a  picturesque  fourteenth  cen- 
tury church  that  looked  dignified  with  its  more 
than  five  centuries. 

At  Segala  we  crossed  the  watershed.  A  rain- 
drop that  falls  on  this  side  of  Segala  will  find  its 
way  to  the  Mediteranean 

Our  train  stopped  at  Carcassonne,  not  the  real 
Carcassonne,  but  the  Lower  Town,  the  new  town 


178  Three  Weeks  in  France 

laid  out  by  St.  Louis  in  his  efforts  to  lay  out  the 
truly  old  town. 

The  carriages  at  the  depot  are  built  for  a  hot, 
sunny  climate.  Light  colored  canopy  tops  tied 
down  by  strings  protect  the  occupants.  We  bar- 
gained as  usual  before  getting  into  one.  The 
drivers  get  almost  as  much  pleasure  from  the 
bargaining  as  from  the  money  paid  them.  To 
accept  their  first  offer  would  spoil  the  drive  for 
them.  They  would  not  only  regret  the  lost  de- 
bate, but  would  be  harassed  by  the  idea  that  they 
might  have  asked  more. 

Fortified  by  a  good  luncheon  on  the  train,  we 
prepared  to  enjoy  our  drive  to  La  Cite,  the 
greatest  wonder  in  the  world,  of  its  kind.  Here 
to-day  is  a  town  which,  except  for  the  inhabi- 
tants, is  as  it  was,  not  in  the  tenth,  eleventh  or 
twelfth  century,  but  as  it  was  in  the  fifth  century. 
There  are  fragments  dating  from  the  second 
century,  but  the  town  as  a  whole  is  a  walled  city 
of  say  450  A.  D.  Rome  built  it.  The  Visi- 
goths held  it.  It  suffered  great  vicissitudes  dur- 
ing the  Albigensian  War.  These  forerunners  of 
the  Reformation  were  finally  exterminated  or 
subdued  or  converted  by  Simon  of  Montfort 
whose  cruel  life  was  ended  at  the  siege  of  Tou- 
louse in  1 2 18.  But  pounded,  battered  and  be- 
sieged, Carcassonne  was  never  destroyed  and  to- 


Carcassonne  179 


day  is  to  the  student  of  early  warfare  what  the 
fossil  is  to  the  geologist. 

Our  drive  took  us  through  the  Lower  Town, 
thoroughly  modern,  between  two  rows  of  giant 
sycamores  and  out  onto  the  dusty  road  where  we 
blessed  the  canopy  top,  for  while  the  air  was 
cool,  the  sun  was  very  hot. 

Here  and  there  a  beggar  reminded  us  that  we 
were  in  a  Mecca  of  sight-seers,  for  tourists 
support  beggary  and  vice  wherever  they  go.  We 
crossed  the  new  bridge  and  took  a  picture  of 
the  old  one. 

We  tried  to  create  something  romantic  out  of 
a  round  tower  near  the  road,  but  the  driver 
smiled  at  our  enthusiasm  and  said  it  was  a  mill 
and  in  active  operation. 

We  drove  away  from  La  Cite  for  a  half  mile 
in  order  to  obtain  a  bird's-eye  view  of  it  in  its 
entirety.  Nothing  could  surpass  the  impressive- 
ness  of  the  scene.  The  outer  walls  are  sixteen 
hundred  yards  in  circumference  and  are  topped 
by  fifty  towers. 

We  drove  into  the  Porte  de  l'Aude  and  through 
the  narrow  streets  to  the  former  Chateau,  now 
used  as  a  barracks  and  closed  to  the  public. 

We  have  viewed  with  awe  the  Grand  Place 
at  Brussels,  dating  from  the  sixteenth  century. 
When  they  laid  the  foundations  for  those  old 
guild  houses,  the  citizens  of  Carcassonne  were 
fighting  behind  walls  over  a  thousand  years  old 


i8o  Three  Weeks  in  France 

and  those  were  the  walls  surrounding  us,  per- 
fectly preserved.  Prior  to  the  invention  of  gun 
powder  they  were  impregnable  to  assault. 

The  cathedral  (now  a  cathedral  no  longer) 
suggests  a  fortress  more  than  a  church,  but  a 
fortress  with  beautiful  windows.  Its  foundation 
runs  back  to  the  fifth  century  but  it  was  rebuilt 
between  1050  and  1350  and  very  carefully  re- 
stored in  1840. 

We  were  shown  through  by  a  whispering 
sacristan,  greatly  in  contrast  to  the  roaring  sol- 
dier who  took  us  over  the  city  walls  later.  The 
tomb  of  Simon  de  Montfort  is  here.  We  dropped 
no  tears  upon  it.  We  have  no  quarrel  with 
Simon's  religion,  but  his  methods  were  not  such 
as  we  care  to  endorse.  They  were,  however, 
the  methods  of  his  age  rather  than  his  church. 
Neither  side  had  anything  on  the  other  in  that 
respect.  There  are  many  quaint  carvings  in  the 
old  church,  of  pigs,  salamanders  and  monks.  An 
alabaster  tomb,  once  gilded,  of  an  archbishop 
who  died  in  1575,  is  carved  with  painful  exact- 
ness even  to  the  official  ring  on  his  finger. 

A  thirteenth  century  Station,  the  Descent  from 
the  Cross,  is  particularly  fine,  and  a  colored  statue 
of  John  the  Baptist  is  interesting.  The  font 
dates  from  the  fifth  century.  A  bas  relief  of  the 
siege  of  Toulouse  in  12 18  gives  one  an  idea  of 
early  military  tactics. 


Carcassonne  181 


We  were  conducted  around  the  walls  by  a 
soldier  whose  enthusiasm  was  not  tempered  by 
the  heat  nor  by  his  obesity.  We  started  with  the 
west  wall,  fifth  century,  and  entered  the  Tower 
of  Justice,  twelfth  century,  supported  in  part  by 
some  second  century  columns.  Some  stones  are 
mossy  with  age.  These  columns  were  as 
wrinkled  as  lava.  We  peered  at  old  machicola- 
tions, projecting  from  the  walls,  through  which 
the  defenders  could  drop  things  on  the  heads  of 
the  besiegers  if  they  came  too  close.  St.  Louis 
came  in  through  this  gate  and  because  the  citi- 
zens were  not  in  favor  of  being  absorbed  by 
France,  tried  to  build  up  a  new  town  outside  the 
walls.  Thus  a  king's  petulance  aided  in  pre- 
serving as  in  amber  this  old  dead  city.  We 
passed  through  tower  after  tower,  each  worthy 
of  study.  The  Tower  of  the  Visigoths,  and  the 
Tower  of  the  Inquisition  have  their  histories 
written  in  their  names. 

A  modern  chord,  jangling  and  out  of  tune  with 
the  soft,  rich  music  of  the  ages,  was  struck  by 
the  preparations  being  made  for  a  grand  pageant 
on  July  28th,  representing  scenes  from  the  history 
of  Carcassonne.  A  tinsel  stage  and  a  flimsy  pine 
grand  stand  was  being  erected  near  the  church 
and  they  looked  like  a  string  of  glass  beads  on 
the  neck  of  a  beautiful  old  statue. 

The  highest  tower  is  the  one  with  the  highest 


1 82  Three  Weeks  in  France 

mission.  It  protected  the  church  in  the  days  of 
assaults.  We  climbed  to  the  top  in  a  wind  even 
higher  than  the  tower  and  were  rewarded  by  a 
grand  view  of  the  town  and  its  outer  and  inner 
fortifications. 

The  Touring  Club  de  France,  with  unconscious 
humor  has  placed  a  round  table  with  a  road  map 
of  France  on  the  topmost  level  of  the  tower. 
Any  motorist  who  happens  to  wander  with  his 
car  to  this  high  tower  would  have  no  difficulty 
in  knowing  just  where  he  was. 

The  Porte  de  Narbonnaise  is  the  other  gate  to 
the  city.  Our  walk  terminated  there.  It  is  a  double 
gate  with  two  portcullises  and  many  machicola- 
tions. Our  guide  in  his  efforts  to  explain  to  our 
benighted  intellects  the  operation  of  opening  the 
outer  portcullis  and  letting  in  the  invaders  and 
then  dropping  the  gate  and  throwing  things  down 
on  them,  danced  back  and  forth  and  perspired 
and  fought  a  whole  battle.  B.  understood  him 
the  first  time,  but  I  was  not  sure,  so  at  my  request 
he  alternately  besieged  and  defended  us  again, 
almost  throwing  himself  through  a  crack  in  his 
effort  to  make  his  explanation  clear. 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  183 


D 


XIII 

The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn 

HERE  were  good  views  of  the  old  city  as 
we  pulled  out  for  Beziers  on  our  way 
to  the  Cevennes  regions  for  some  more 
of  the  remarkable  natural  scenery  of 
France.  There  were  vineyards  on  every  side 
of  us.  Men  and  women  were  cultivating  the 
ground  between  the  vines.  Here  and  there  the 
plants  were  being  sprayed,  sometimes  with  sul- 
phur, sometimes  with  a  blue  solution. 

The  long  battle  with  the  phylloxera,  a  vine 
parasite,  has  been  fought  and  won.  America 
has  the  unenviable  distinction  of  having  sent  this 
scourge  to  France.  In  i860,  in  seeking  to  en- 
graft vines  upon  younger  roots,  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  plants  were  brought  over  from  Cal- 
ifornia. The  roots  of  these  plants  were  infested 
with  insects  which  multiplied  rapidly  and  spread 
all  over  Europe.  They  attack  the  leaf  but  their 
principal  damage  is  to  the  roots.  In  twenty-five 
years  they  destroyed  over  a  billion  dollars  worth 
of   vines,    equal   to   Bismarck's   war   indemnity, 


184  Three  Weeks  in  France 

minus  the  bloodshed.  Just  whether  a  Frenchman 
would  prefer  to  shed  his  blood  or  his  wine  is  an 
open  question. 

It  is  gratifying  to  state  that  having  furnished 
the  disease  we  also  furnished  the  remedy.  It 
was  discovered  that  the  roots  of  the  American 
vines  were  hardy  enough  to  resist  the  microscopic 
pest  and  the  homeopathic  dictum  "like  cures  like" 
was  vindicated. 

"Plants  Americains"  are  advertised  in  this  re- 
gion for  their  insect  resisting  powers. 

Every  station  was  filled  with  wine  casks  and 
there  were  scores  of  tank-cars  with  huge  tuns, 
one  or  two  to  a  car  on  every  sidetrack.  There 
was  a  boom  in  the  wine  region.  Prices  were  up 
and  wine  was  being  rushed  to  the  markets.  The 
tank  cars  resembled  those  of  the  Standard  Oil 
Company  but  smelled  differently. 

Thanks  to  a  pure-wine  law  passed  a  few  years 
ago,  the  lower  quality  wines  bring  seven  to  eight 
times  the  prices  of  five  years  ago. 

At  Narbonne  we  were  within  a  few  miles  of 
the  Mediterranean. 

Having  an  hour  at  Beziers  before  taking  the 
train  to  Millau  we  ate  dinner  at  the  station.  We 
were  served  by  one  of  those  waiters  who  know 
what  you  want  better  than  you  do,  one  of  those 
suggesters.  They  always  arouse  antagonism  in 
my  breast  and  often  force  me  to  eat  something 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  185 

I  dislike  merely  because  they  fail  to  suggest  it.  I 
will  turn  down  my  favorite  dish  if  its  name  is 
whispered  to  me  by  one  of  this  tribe. 

This  one  at  Beziers  suggested  one  thing  after 
another  and  said,  "Ah-no-no-no-no-no"  at  each 
negative  like  a  released  ratchet.  I  ordered  ham 
and  eggs.  He  was  disappointed  and  evidently 
disapproved.  He  brought  me  cold  ham,  and  when 
remonstrated  with,  swore  there  were  no  eggs  on 
the  carte.  He  yielded  when  they  were  pointed 
out  indisputably  legible  even  in  the  poor  pen- 
manship employed  on  continental  bills  of  fare. 

Beziers  has  over  fifty  thousand  people  and  we 
saw  a  little  of  it  later  in  our  trip  but  this  time 
we  made  use  of  our  leisure  in  passing  our  order 
over  successive  vetoes  of  the  waiter 

The  town  dates  from  Roman  times  when  it  had 
a  longer  name  and  a  shorter  polling  list  than  at 
present.  It  was  the  center  of  Montfort's  activi- 
ties against  the  Albigensians.  To-day  it  finds  it 
more  profitable  to  be  a  center  of  the  red  wine  and 
brandy  trade. 

We  went  to  Millau,  headquarters  of  the  kid 
glove  industry,  in  order  to  get  an  early  start  for 
the  source  of  the  Tarn  and  a  view  of  its  Gorge 
or  Canon,  as  well  as  a  sight  of  the  Causses  or 
plateau  region  of  France,  a  desert  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  fertile  country  in  the  world. 

It  is  a  seventy-four  mile  ride  to  Millau  and  the 


1 86  Three  Weeks  in  France 

time  allowed  for  the  trip  is  five  hours.  As  usual 
we  started  late  and  arrived  on  time.  Our  car 
was  lighted  before  we  started.  We  knew  that 
meant  tunnels.  Finding  ourselves  the  sole  oc- 
cupants of  a  compartment,  we  made  a  couch  of 
one  side  by  drawing  the  cushion  up  to  form  a 
pillow.  One  of  us  lay  down  but  not  for  long. 
B.  soon  commenced  to  give  her  scenery  gasp  as 
we  passed  rock  formations  rich  with  promises 
later  fulfilled  when  we  reached  the  Causses. 

Soon  twilight  dimmed  the  scene  and  we  tried 
to  read  by  the  miserable  little  oil  lamp  in  the 
roof.  No  use.  We  lingered  at  Bedarieux  for 
an  hour  and  twenty-one  minutes  with  nothing  to 
do  except  to  stare  at  a  deserted  depot  where  even 
the  news-stand  was  locked  up.  We  were  late 
into  this  village  and  pulled  out  of  it  fifteen  min- 
utes ahead  of  schedule,  but  no  one  seemed  to 
care. 

The  mountains  here  are  terraced  and  culti- 
vated as  far  up  as  there  is  a  skin  of  earth  over 
the  rocks ;  above  that  they  are  battlemented  with 
strata  standing  on  end.  This  is  the  region  of 
olives,  almonds  and  figs;  also  of  tunnels  and  via- 
ducts. The  grape  vines  were  white  with  sul- 
phur. A  laughing  peasant  woman  pointed  her 
bellows  at  a  soldier  on  our  train  and  fired  a  white 
salute. 

By  pure  accident  we  gazed  out  the  left  side 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  187 

of  our  car  and  behold,  a  new  moon,  with  as 
dainty  a  bow  as  Diana  ever  drew.  We  had  only 
a  glimpse  of  it  between  hills  and  then  it  disap- 
peared only  to  reappear  and  play  peek-a-boo 
with  us,  first  from  one  side  of  the  train  and  then 
the  other,  and  then  straight  ahead  as  we  wormed 
our  way  through  the  mountains. 

We  had  intended  to  go  by  train  from  Millau 
to  Banassac-la-Canourgue  and  then  return  by 
carriage  and  boat.  Arriving  at  Millau,  we  went 
to  the  Hotel  du  Commerce  and  tried  to  leave  a 
call  for  the  early  train  and  go  to  bed.  They 
convinced  us,  the  hotel  people,  that  it  would  be 
wiser  to  take  another  hour  of  sleep  and  go  by 
carriage  to  La  Malene.  The  cost  was  not  much 
more  and  we  were  willing  to  pay  well  for  that 
hour  of  sleep  after  eleven  hours  on  a  creeping 
train. 

But  you  should  have  heard  them !  It  was  like 
a  grand  opera  fugue.  It  would  start  with  a  tenor 
solo,  the  soprano  would  inject  shrieks  followed 
by  a  rumbling  obligato  by  the  bass  and  contralto 
mingled,  after  which  the  chorus  would  be  ren- 
dered by  the  full  strength  of  the  company,  in- 
cluding maidens,  villagers,  etc.  Finally  the  tallest 
pirate,  the  tenor,  he  of  the  long  mustache  and 
liquid  eyes,  shouted  to  the  basso  to  procure  a 
candle,  and  led  us  all  into  the  parlor  where  a 
map  was  hanging.     Never  has  parlor  so   well 


Three  Weeks  in  France 


vindicated  its  etymological  descent  from  parlez, 
to  talk.  They  parleyed  for  a  few  minutes  after 
we  had  surrendered,  simply  because  of  acquired 
momentum. 

They  asked  us  who  planned  our  trip  and 
showed  very  flattering  surprise  when  assured 
that  B.  did  it.  But  how  ?  We  pointed  to  Baede- 
ker as  our  assistant.  Then  you  should  have  heard 
the  full  diapason  of  Gallic  scorn.  "Ah!  Bay- 
decker"  with  strong  accent  on  the  second  syllable. 
Baedeker  did  not  make  Millau  the  center  of  all 
excursions  but  chose  Banassac  for  some  of  them. 
Hence  the  chorus !  We  voted  for  Millau  although 
it  cost  a  little  more,  because  we  preferred  to 
command  our  own  time  and  ride  in  a  carriage 
rather  than  on  a  railroad  train. 

We  had  a  good  night's  sleep.  We  might  have 
thought  there  were  too  many  fleas  had  it  been 
our  first  night  in  France,  but  our  cuticle  has  been 
so  marked  off  by  flea  explorers,  followed  by 
claim-jumpers,  that  the  Millau  prospectors  found 
little  but  abandoned  claims. 

Fleas  are  everywhere,  as  might  be  expected 
in  a  non-bathing  country,  and  so  numerous  that 
even  the  number  carried  away  by  us  will  hardly 
make  a  dent  in  the  invisible  supply.  I  make  this 
single  reference  to  a  disagreeable  subject  and  drop 
it.  You  can  insert  this  paragraph  in  every  chap- 
ter if  realism  appeals  to  you. 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  189 

One  could  spend  weeks  in  this  neighborhood 
and  find  a  new  dream  spot  each  day.  Our  pur- 
pose is  to  mention  just  a  few  in  a  much  neglected 
locality,  as  a  favor,  not  to  the  locality  but  to  the 
American  tourist.  Frenchmen  know  and  love 
the  Cevennes  and  will  not  thank  me  for  coaxing 
Americans  here.  Once  in  awhile  a  lover  of  the 
beautiful,  like  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  crosses 
these  mountains  and  illumines  them  with  the 
light  of  his  genius,  but  so  great  is  Stevenson's 
power  that  people  believe  that  the  beauty  is  in 
his  pen  and  not  in  the  subject.  At  any  rate  they 
couple  the  Tarn  with  Modestine  and  forget  that 
the  mule  has  been  replaced  by  transportation 
facilities  which,  bad  as  they  are,  are  superior  to 
the  burro. 

Frenchmen  visit  such  spots  as  Gavarnie  and 
the  Causses  and  the  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  in  droves 
but  an  American  or  an  Englishman  is  a  rarity. 
Therefore,  you  need  to  learn  French,  but  the  trip 
is  worth  even  that  effort.  We  saw  no  Americans 
and  only  one  English  couple  between  Mont  St. 
Michel  and  Millau. 

We  drove  for  a  mile  or  so  under  sycamore 
shadows  and  then  into  the  country,  following 
the  Tarn.  It  was  early  morning.  We  started 
at  seven,  and  farmers  were  coming  into  town. 
There  were  many  loads  of  fagots  and  countless 
old  women.     We  stopped  at  Aguesac  to  mail  a 


190  Three  Weeks  in  France 

post  card,  thereby  giving  the  local  postman  some- 
thing to  puzzle  over  for  several  hours,  we  sus- 
pect. Even  in  this  remote  village  there  were 
soldiers.  They  were  just  making  their  toilets. 
They  looked  every  inch  the  soldier  as  they  peered 
over  the  stone  wall  but  their  red  trousers  neatly 
folded  and  lying  on  top  thereof  made  us  glad 
the  wall  was  there. 

We  saw  many  bicycles,  few  automobiles  and 
no  motor  cycles.  Once  in  awhile  we  passed  a 
diligence. 

After  Rozier  the  Causses  begin.  Rocks  be- 
come chateaux,  hilltops  change  to  castles  and 
the  mountains  are  crowned  with  fortified  towns, 
all  of  nature's  handiwork.  Turrets,  battlements 
and  machicolations  are  reproduced  on  a  scale 
that  shames  man's  feeble  efforts. 

The  Route  Nationale  is  a  triumph  of  road 
building.  Miles  of  it  were  blasted  from  the 
mountain  and  the  fragments  built  into  a  wall 
on  the  opposite  side.  There  are  cables  running 
to  the  mountain  tops  and  used  for  bringing  wood 
down  to  the  valley.  The  road  passes  through 
many  doorways  and  short  tunnels  in  the  rock. 
The  green,  foaming  Tarn  runs  always  beside  it. 
It  was  far  below  us  but  so  clear  that  the  fish  were 
plainly  visible. 

There  are  balanced  rocks,  chimneys,  pulpits 
and  other  curious  formations  sufficient  to  equip 
a  hundred  Gardens  of  the  Gods. 


DROMEDARY    HOCK  -OOKCJK   OF   TUK   TARN 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  191 

At  Pas  de  Souci  the  river  left  its  bed  and  bored 
into  the  rocks,  almost  disappearing  from  sight. 
This  is  the  point  where  our  return  boating  trip 
terminated. 

Most  of  our  drive  to  La  Malene  was  divided 
between  admiring  the  mountains  and  looking 
for  Les  Etroits  (The  Straits).  Three  times  B. 
found  narrows  that  looked  like  they  might  be  the 
straits  but  were  not.  I  told  her  that  three  of  a 
kind  were  better  than  a  strait,  but  she  kept  hoping 
to  fill  her  hand. 

The  road  continued  to  wind  under  rocks  hun- 
dreds of  feet  high,  sometimes  curving  over  us 
like  shells.  Do  not  be  disappointed  if  things  do 
not  meet  your  expectations  the  first  few  miles. 
Wait  for  the  big  show  farther  on.  The  road 
is  arcaded  for  hundreds  of  yards  by  leaning  or 
shelving  rocks.  We  almost  feared  that  the  jar 
made  by  our  carriage  would  loosen  some  of  them. 
We  consoled  ourselves  by  the  reflection  that  if 
it  did  we  would  have  a  grander  tomb  that  Na- 
poleon or  Grant,  achieved  with  much  less  labor 
and  bloodshed.  Still  we  were  in  no  hurry  for 
that  distinction. 

The  basic  rock  of  the  Gorge  is  red  like  that  in 
Colorado,  topped  by  gray  limestone.  I  remem- 
ber how  hard  it  was  to  explain  the  significance 
of  geology  to  me  when  a  boy  on  the  Kansas 


192  Three  Weeks  in  France 

prairies.  The  meaning  of  it  all  was  clearer  in 
the  presence  of  those  dog-earecl  leaves  of  nature's 
turning. 

Chameleons  ran  about  on  the  sunny  surfaces 
of  the  rocks  and  nearly  "bust  themselves  mak- 
ing good,"  so  varied  was  the  coloring. 

We  grew  hungry  in  the  invigorating  mountain 
air.  The  question  "Where  do  we  eat?"  had 
not  been  answered — at  least  not  in  English. 
Since  seven  o'clock  nothing  had  passed  our  lips 
but  ejaculations  and  adjectives.  We  were  glad 
when  we  rounded  the  last  curve  and  sighted  the 
chateau  at  La  Malene. 

Cakes  and  lemonade  stayed  our  surging  ap- 
petites temporarily  for  we  were  not  to  lunch  until 
we  reached  Les  Vignes  on  the  return  trip. 

We  were  so  fortunate  as  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  director  of  this  and  several  other  hotels 
who  was  making  a  supervisory  visit  to  the  prop- 
erty. He  told  us  much  about  the  neighborhood 
and  to  him  we  are  indebted  for  the  suggestion 
that  we  visit  the  Grotto  Dargilan. 

In  the  boat  with  an  expert  navigator  at  each 
end  we  floated  down  the  crystal-like  water  of 
the  Tarn.  The  skill  of  our  boatmen  made  shoot- 
ing the  rapids  seem  a  simple  operation  as  they 
drew  us  out  of  danger  with  one  thrust  of  their 
long  poles.  The  river  is  from  two  to  twenty-six 
feet  deep  and  our  boat  floated  on  it  like  a  leaf. 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  193 

It  seemed  to  graze  the  larger  rocks  as  suddenly 
they  started  up  from  the  bottom.  Fishing  is  free 
and  abundant.  Where  the  river  flows  through 
private  property  it  becomes  private  property,  but 
for  most  of  its  course  it  is  open  to  the  humblest 
disciple  of  Walton.  Big  white  fish  darted  out  of 
deep,  dark  pools,  disturbed  by  our  poles.  They 
doubtless  mourned  the  days  of  the  ancient  regime 
when  fishing  was  not  so  common. 

We  entered  the  Strait,  which  at  the  point  of 
entry  was  a  split  strait  owing  to  the  low  water. 
Doubtless  the  fall  rains  will  fill  it. 

The  Amphitheatre,  a  little  beyond,  is  enor- 
mous. We  did  not  catch  the  name  of  the  next 
cliff  where,  according  to  the  legend,  some  one  was 
thrown  down  hard.  Neither  did  we  learn  whether 
he  stayed  down  or  formed  a  third  party. 

An  immense  crevasse  on  the  left  splits  the 
whole  mountain  from  summit  to  base.  These 
grand  scenes  were  emphasized  and  given  their 
due  proportions  by  a  farmhouse  or  tiny  "mais- 
onette" here  and  there  clinging  to  the  mountain 
side  like  a  swallow's  nest. 

Our  boatmen  were  talkative  and  told  us  much, 
from  which  we  extracted  considerable  and  un- 
derstood some  and  remembered  a  little.  At  any 
rate,  they  tried,  which  was  more  than  our  driver 
did.     He  was  like  the  fifth  little  pig  on  our  once 


194  Three  Weeks  in  France 

rosy  toes.  He  simply  said,  "Oui,  oui,  oui,"  all 
the  way  home. 

One  ingenious  farmer  built  a  home  by  using 
the  natural  cliffs  and  shelves  for  three  walls  and 
the  roof.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  put  up  a 
front.  But  that  is  all  that  lots  of  people  do  who 
ostensibly  own  their  own  homes  in  America. 

The  boatmen  pointed  out  "Louis  XIV  court- 
ing a  woman  with  a  parasol"  and  "The  Court  of 
the  Monks"  and  "Bismarck  in  Helmet"  and  other 
formations  more  or  less  living  up  to  their  names. 

Then  we  killed  a  swimming  snake.  This  was 
done  enthusiastically  and  adroitly  by  placing  the 
pole  under  him,  tossing  him  onto  the  bank  and 
finishing  him  with  a  rock. 

"The  Mushroom"  was  formerly  the  "Arch  of 
Triumph"  but  the  road  builders  needed  part  of 
the  space  and  gnawed  away  one  leg  of  the  arch. 
The  Dromedary  needs  to  hump  himself.  He 
scarcely  looks  the  part.  The  Bunch  of  Asparagus 
is  better,  but  the  Creamer  and  Sugar  Bowl  are 
immense. 

The  Hermitage  of  St.  Hilaire  is  now  a  chapel 
perched  so  high  up  on  the  mountain  side  as  to  re- 
semble a  halfway  house  to  heaven  rather  than  a 
place  of  worship. 

We  passed  some  more  fairly  difficult  rapids 
and  then  side-stepped  Pas  de  Souci  by  making 
a  landing.     We  gladly  and  liberally  tipped  our 


TIIK    MUSHROOM — GORGE  OK  THE   TARN 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  195 

boatmen,  for  they  had  been  companions  rather 
than  servants.  One  of  them  aptly  characterized 
it  as  "un  voyage  des  amis." 

The  carriage  was  waiting  for  us  and  we  drove 
to  Les  Vignes.  We  ate  lunch  under  a  walnut 
tree  to  the  music  of  locusts  and  the  deep  roar  of 
the  Tarn.  Our  lunch  had  been  ordered  by  tele- 
phone from  La  Melene  and  was  ready  for  us. 
It  was  mostly  grown  on  the  premises,  crawfish, 
whitefish,  eggs,  ham,  bologna,  fruit,  almonds  and 
cakes,  all  excellently  prepared  and  seasoned  with 
our  morning's  rides  in  the  carriage  and  boat. 

Of  the  three  windows  on  the  end  of  the  inn, 
two  are  painted  on  the  wall.  Ventilation  by  sug- 
gestion. The  third  is  the  attic  window  with  a 
pulley  over  it.  Some  day  fire  escapes  will  be 
made  obligatory  in  France  and  they  will  prob- 
ably paint  them  on  the  buildings. 

Our  driver  required  an  hour  and  a  half  to 
bait  and  cool  his  horse,  so  we  were  late  in  start- 
ing for  Le  Rozier.  At  the  latter  village  we  hired 
another  carriage  for  the  Grotto  Dargilan,  one  of 
the  finest  in  Europe. 

The  road  leads  up  the  valley  of  the  Jonte  be- 
tween the  Causse  Noir  and  the  Causse  Mejean. 
This  was  a  less  exciting  drive  than  the  other, 
except  for  the  musical  bells  on  our  horses.  The 
river  was  smaller  and  not  so  swift,  and  we  were 
sleepy. 


196  Three  Weeks  in  France 

From  a  small  platform  at  the  end  of  a  shaky 
walk  one  obtains  a  fine  view  of  the  Gorge.  It  is 
a  pocket  edition  of  the  Grand  Canyon  bound  in 
green.  The  road  is  not  as  well  made  as  the  Route 
Nationale  and  lacks  retaining  walls  for  most 
of  its  course.  There  are  many  sharp  turns  and 
we  recalled  grimly  Opie  Read's  story  of  the 
stage  driver  who  was  asked  if  people  went  over 
a  certain  cliff  often.  "Only  once,"  was  the  reply. 
We  looked  dozwi  at  terraced  mountain  sides. 
One  thing  we  noted  with  a  blush.  France  has  no 
turnstiles  guarding  her  great  natural  scenery. 
She  is  freer  than  America  in  this  respect. 

After  driving  along  this  white,  dusty  road  un- 
til we  resembled  millers  the  driver  pointed  to 
something  suspended  halfway  between  us  and  the 
nearest  fixed  star  and  make  a  remark.  "What?" 
we  yelled.  "Oui,  monsieur-dam,"  he  said,  "that 
is  the  entrance  to  the  Grotto."  This  apparently 
profane  title  is  the  vernacular  condensation  of 
"Monsieur  et  madame"  and  is  used  in  all  parts 
of  France  by  the  serving  classes. 

Sure  enough,  that  was  it.  We  took  individual 
elevators  in  the  shape  of  burros  and  started.  B's 
beast  was  in  the  lead.  His  name  was  Trumpeter 
and  his  first  name  began  with  A.  At  least  the 
guide  yelled  "A-a-a  Trompayter"  all  the  way  up 
the  zig-zag  path.  My  mule  was  nameless,  or  at 
least  I  will  not  tell  you  what  I  called  him.     No 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  197 

sidesaddles  were  furnished.  We  were  half  eaten 
by  flies.  My  mule  had  no  bit  in  his  mouth.  My 
idea  of  zero  in  recreation  is  to  ride  a  willful 
donkey  with  only  a  lead  chain  when  that  donkey 
has  an  appetite  for  the  grass  on  the  extreme  outer 
edge  of  the  path.  The  price  agreed  on  for  the 
donkeys  was  one  and  a  half  francs  each.  Now 
was  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose  that  that  meant 
for  the  round  trip?  Who  would  be  foolish 
enough  to  hire  a  donkey  for  half  the  trip?  As 
well  expect  to  dicker  for  the  return  trip  on  an 
aeroplane.  Nevertheless  it  cost  us  another  franc 
each  for  the  ride  down  the  mountain. 

We  arrived  at  the  top  and  donned  costumes 
before  entering  the  Grotto.  These  costumes 
were  of  white  duck  and  of  no  sex.  We  visited 
one  of  the  five  rooms,  the  most  beautiful  and 
most  accessible  one.  It  required  a  descent  of 
eighty  feet  into  the  mountain.  The  deepest  room 
is  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  below  the  entrance. 
Two  names  will  suggest  the  appearance  of  the 
principal  chambers,  the  Church  and  the  Mosque. 
Stalactites  and  stalagmites  range  in  size  from 
spaghetti  to  small  cottages  and  in  color,  through 
the  entire  prism.  The  grotto  is  lighted  through- 
out by  electricity  assisted  in  spots  by  candles  and 
strips  of  calcium.  There  are  natural  and  arti- 
ficial steps  and  iron  railings  wherever  necessary. 
The  guide  yelled  at  us,  not  because  the  acoustics 


198  Three  Weeks  in  France 

were  bad  but  because  we  were  foreigners.  We 
have  done  the  same  thing  ourselves.  The  Grotto 
deserves  all  the  good  that  can  be  said  of  it,  and 
we  advise  every  one  to  visit  it  in  spite  of  its 
inconveniences. 

Grottoes  are  the  slow  growth  of  centuries,  or 
at  least  the  stalactites  and  stalagmites  are.  King- 
doms rise  and  fall,  dynasties  totter  to  their  doom, 
you  could  almost  say  tariffs  are  lowered  while 
an  inch  of  this  alabaster  is  being  made.  Even 
government  buildings  are  built  more  rapidly.  I 
can  imagine  no  better  position  than  that  of  super- 
vising architect  of  a  good  grotto  at  a  fair  annual 
salary  during  the  progress  of  the  work. 

We  returned  under  a  new  moon  through  star- 
tled villages  whose  people  were  eating  al  fresco 
and  other  things  in  the  streets  in  front  of  their 
houses.  We  lolled  back  in  the  carriage  and 
picked  out  fancied  resemblances  in  the  silhouettes 
made  by  the  rocks  against  the  sky. 

We  reached  the  Grand  Hotel  du  Rozier  and  sat 
down  at  a  small  table  adjoining  a  larger  one 
where  ten  or  twelve  young  couples  from  Millau 
were  dining.  They  had  come  out  in  motor  cars 
and  after  dinner  they  danced.  The  tables  were 
out  of  doors  and  candles  were  placed  thereon  for 
the  convenience  of  the  insects  which  otherwise 
might  not  have  found  us. 

Our  commercial  minds  revolved  the  questions, 


TIIK    STRAITS— GORGE   OF   TIIK    TARN 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  199 

"Why  is  not  the  Grotto  Dargilan  better  known? 
Why  is  it  not  organized  and  systematized  ?  Why 
are  not  better  facilities  provided  for  getting  to 
it?" 

A  two  hours'  ride  on  a  dusty  road,  followed  by 
a  climb  on  the  back  of  an  unguided  mule  dis- 
courages any  one  but  an  enthusiast.  No  effort  is 
made  to  arouse  your  interest.  The  Grotto  con- 
verts you  at  once  but  that  is  after  you  are  in  it. 
It  is  not  assisted  by  any  advance  work  whatever 
nor  by  much  co-operation  on  the  ground.  Only 
pride  and  obstinacy  kept  us  going  up  that  hill. 
Anticipation  had  little  to  do  with  it. 

It  is  true  that  the  Grotto  is  well  lighted  for  a 
grotto  and  equipped  with  steps  and  railings,  but 
you  don  your  costumes  in  a  boarded-off  shanty 
and  the  attendants  are  poorly  dressed  and 
ignorant. 

Grottoes  at  best  are  not  abodes  of  comfort. 
The  roofs  always  leak.  In  Ireland  it  rains  inside 
a  thatched  cottage  for  a  week  after  it  stops  out- 
side. That  is,  it  would  if  it  ever  stopped  outside. 
In  a  grotto  you  are  splashed  by  drippings  of  rains 
that  fell  before  the  reign  of  Louis  XVI  fell.  The 
sidewalks  are  sure  to  be  wet  and  the  air  clammy. 

You  have  only  one  comfort  as  you  clamber 
around  twenty  or  a  hundred  meters  below  the 
surface,  and  stumble  over  vermiform  appendices 


200  Three  Weeks  in  France 

in  the  bowels  of  the  earth:  there  is  no  danger  of 
fire. 

Actuaries'  statistics  show  that  the  fire  loss  in 
grottoes  is  practically  nothing.  There  are  no 
hand  grenades  on  the  stalactites  and  you  are  not 
nervous  when  the  attendant  drops  matches  all 
over  the  premises. 

Dargilan  has  all  the  features  of  Han-sur-Lesse 
in  Belgium  except  running  water  and,  as  I  said, 
grottoes  are  not  good  for  light  housekeeping 
anyhow.  In  place  thereof,  it  has  the  most  mar- 
vellous formations,  the  most  delicate  traceries, 
the  greatest  variety  of  colors  and  the  most  fas- 
cinating translucencies  imaginable. 

But  it  has  not  a  single  descriptive  booklet  and 
one  must  depend  on  totally  inadequate  post  cards 
to  refresh  one's  memory.  Grotto  illustrations 
are  always  disappointing  and,  strange  to  say,  ar- 
tistic and  beauty-loving  France  is  the  home  of  the 
least  satisfying  post  cards  of  the  most  beautiful 
scenery  on  the  planet. 

Usually  France  adorns  everything  she  touches. 
There  was  in  our  hotel  dining  room  at  Millau 
a  fresco  painting  of  U.  S.  Grant  and  Andrew 
Carnegie  shooting  ducks.  The  likenesses  were  un- 
mistakable. The  picture  was  a  good  one.  It 
was  full  of  atmosphere — and  ducks.  Below  the 
picture  were  arranged  some  shelves  with  canned 
goods  on  them.    The  significance  escaped  us  for 


The  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  201 

a  moment.     Then  it  flashed  on  us.     The  gentle- 
men were  shooting  over  their  preserves. 

France  is  the  heaven  of  travelers.  We  have 
not  had  a  hard  bed  nor  a  poor  meal  in  the  entire 
republic. 


202  Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes 


XIV 

Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes 


nHERE  were  only  five  people  in  line  at 
the  ticket  window  when  we  reached  the 
I     depot  but   two  were   women  and   the 

train  pulled  in  before  we  bought  our 
tickets  to  Beziers.  We  might  have  used  round 
trip  tickets  to  Millau.  It  was  our  first  and  only- 
chance  and  we  forgot  it! 

Tournemire  is  where  you  change  cars  for 
Roquefort  if  you  are  curious  to  know  what 
cheese  can  do  to  a  grotto.  Most  of  the  Roquefort 
cheese  is  ripened  in  grottoes.  All  you  need  to  do 
is  to  get  off  the  train  at  Roquefort  and  follow 
your  nose. 

We  passed  a  few  wheatfields  that  were  not 
visible  on  our  ride  to  Millau.  The  fields  were 
small  and  the  sheaves  looked  like  inlaid  work. 
Such  a  thing  as  aggregating  sheaves  into  a  shock 
would  be  out  of  the  question.  They  would  scat- 
ter out  like  jackstraws. 

The  lady  who  was  the  principal  cause  of  our 
delay  at  the  Millau  ticket  office  occupied  part  of 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  203 

our  compartment  in  company  with  her  son,  a  stal- 
wart youth  of  seventeen,  large  enough  for  twenty- 
one.  He  had  not  been  in  evidence  during  the 
ticket  buying  episode.  On  the  train,  his  mother 
smoothed  his  locks  and  patted  his  hand  in  a  way 
that  would  have  embarrassed  an  American  boy 
of  his  age  and  size.  He  seemed  to  like  it.  At  one 
of  the  stations  she  left  him  in  the  car  while  she 
went  into  the  buffet  for  a  box  of  lunch. 

This  was  not  our  only  example  of  the  puerility 
of  the  French  boy.  We  saw  many  a  big  boy  in 
his  'teens  being  caressed  in  public  by  his  doting 
mother. 

It  proved  the  truth  of  what  we  had  read  in 
Max  O'Rell's  "Jacques  Bonhomme"  regarding 
the  ultra-supervision  of  the  French  youth  of  both 
sexes,  while  his  remarks  regarding  personal  clean- 
liness were  similarly  verified  by  observation. 

O'Rell  says  that  "the  average  French  schoolboy 
allows  himself  five  minutes  to  wash,  dress  and  get 
out  of  the  dormitory,  giving  himself  a  dry  polish 
'a  la  Squeers.' 

"From  this  you  will  easily  infer  that  a  pint  of 
water  goes  a  long  way  in  a  dormitory  of  French 
boys.  Never  will  an  usher  make  a  remark  to  a 
French  boy  over  twelve  because  he  is  dirty,  not 
even  in  the  refectory.  Provided  he  has  a  cravat 
on,  nobody  will  scold  him  for  having  a  dirty 
neck. 


204  Three  Weeks  in  France 

"He  plays  little,  walks  solemnly  up  and  down 
his  grassless  school  yard,  steals  whiffs  from  a 
cigarette  hidden  under  his  coat,  promenades  in 
silent  pairs  on  half  holidays  to  the  country,  plays, 
walks  or  sits  on  the  grass  in  the  presence  of  the 
usher  and  files  solemnly  back  to  town.  Result: 
a  little  prig." 

If  there  is  any  truth  in  the  generally  credited 
tradition  that  the  sons  of  ministers  turn  out  badly, 
it  is  not  because  they  are  the  sons  of  ministers  but 
because  they  are  super-supervised  until  they  reach 
what  should  be  maturity  and  then  told  to  use  their 
untrained,  undeveloped,  undisciplined  senses. 
The  whole  French  nation,  the  educated  portion, 
is  suffering  from  being  kept  in  blinders  until 
twenty  years  old  and  then  thrown,  not  into  the 
sunlight  but  into  the  calcium. 

Continuing  his  keen  analysis,  O'Rell  says: 
"Good  society  is  much  alike  everywhere — like 
hotels.  It  is  a  question  of  more  or  less  manners 
in  the  former,  of  more  or  less  fleas  in  the  latter!" 

(It  is  a  joy  to  have  Jacques  Bonhomme  at  your 
elbow.  Things  that  are  unsayable  at  first  hand 
give  an  air  of  erudition  when  quoted.)  "If  you 
wish  to  study  the  manners  of  any  people,  take 
third-class  tickets.  There  is  little  or  nothing  to  be 
picked  up  in  a  first-class  carriage."  (Obviously 
our  sprightly  commentator  is  confusing  manners 
with  fleas.)     "He  (the  Frenchman)  is  convinced 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  205 

that  good  wine  was  given  to  man  by  God  to  re- 
joice his  heart;  and  to  spoil  it  by  adding  water  to 
it  is  in  his  eyes  nothing  short  of  a  sin."  (Jnst 
why  le  bon  Dieu  gives  us  water  is  not  so  clear  to 
him,  but  evidently  not  for  oblations  nor  ablutions. 
Possibly  it  is  to  lay  the  dust  of  the  perfect  French 
road  or  to  nourish  the  root  of  the  vine.) 

"There  is  no  country  about  which  foreigners 
talk  so  much  and  know  so  little  as  France.  With 
the  exception  of  Mr.  Hamerton's,  I  do  not  know 
of  any  foreigner's  writings  on  home  life  in  France 
that  are  worth  the  paper  they  are  written  on. 
Looking  at  Paris  and  calling  it  France  is  the  mis- 
take which  most  of  our  would-be  critics  make." 

Looking  at  Paris  at  all,  and  trying  to  write  a 
book  afterwards  is  difficult,  but  the  Frenchman, 
like  the  Chicagoan,  has  in  his  literature  and  in  his 
press  so  emphasized  his  faults  that  he  can  hardly 
dodge  responsibility  for  the  misconception  by  say- 
ing with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  "But  I  am  so 
impulsive,  so  childlike,  so  filled  wiz  ze  caprice, 
such  a  mendacious  liar,  that  I  cannot  be  believed, 
even  when  I  plead  guilty." 

Another  still  more  naive  defense  of  French  lit- 
erature is  that  its  pruriency,  when  prurient,  is  due 
to  the  craving  on  the  Frenchman's  part  to  read  of 
things  which  he  never  has  experienced  or  wit- 
nessed. The  very  innocence  of  the  French  creates 
a  demand  for  sensational  literature ! 


206  Three  Weeks  in  France 

The  unattached  gentleman  in  our  compartment 
had  a  box  lunch.  He  kept  all  the  fragments  and 
empty  bottles  in  the  box,  and  put  it  under  the  seat, 
explaining  that  there  were  men  to  clean  up  the 
cars  at  every  terminal,  while  to  throw  it  out  the 
window  would  muss  up  the  landscape. 

The  patriotism  and  love  of  harmony  carried 
into  the  smallest  minutiae  of  life  is  further  illus- 
trated by  the  claim  of  O'Rell  that  "So  strong  is 
the  feeling  for  art,  the  eye  for  effect,  in  the 
Frenchman  that  it  would  never  occur  to  him  to 
turn  out  in  his  trap  to  go  to  the  races  in  the  stream 
of  carriages  that  flows  through  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne on  race  days.  Even  the  small  bourgeois 
who  takes  a  cab  for  the  journey  goes  by  another 
route  so  as  not  to  spoil  the  show." 

We  changed  cars  at  Beziers  and  had  three  hours 
in  which  to  eat  luncheon  and  walk  about  the  town. 
So  we  left  our  suit  cases  at  the  "consigne"  and 
walked  through  the  Jardin  des  Poetes,  stopping 
occasionally  for  a  picture.  Finding  that  Number 
12  had  been  shot  off  we  sat  on  a  bench  under  the 
cool  shade  of  the  ever  present  sycamore  and 
changed  films. 

Past  the  Garden,  we  walked  up  the  hot  and 
dusty  Allee  Paul  Ricquet  adorned  with  a  statue 
of  that  engineer-philanthropist  whose  benefaction 
to  the  world  took  the  form  of  the  canal  Midi  con- 
necting the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean  when 


A.M'IKXT    STATCK      XIMKS 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  207 

pieced  out  a  bit  by  the  Garonne.  In  utter  disre- 
gard of  the  fact  that  it  could  not  have  his  name 
emblazoned  on  it,  he  paid  the  entire  expense  of 
construction,  equivalent  to  about  seven  million 
dollars  in  the  money  of  to-day.  This  was  done  in 
the  seventeenth  century.  The  canal  is  one  hun- 
dred and  forty-eight  miles  long,  thirty-three  feet 
wide  at  the  bottom  and  six  and  a  half  feet  deep. 

Street  sprinkling  is  rarely  done  in  France. 
Along  this  beautiful  old  boulevard  a  hand  sprink- 
ler was  being  pushed  and  it  was  intended  to 
moisten  the  inner  promenade  only. 

Here  is  another  paradox.  These  most  cour- 
teous people  will  hold  the  sidewalk  and  force  a 
woman  to  walk  in  the  gutter,  and  will  almost  take 
a  note  book  out  of  your  hand  to  read  what  you 
are  writing. 

The  Hotel  Glacier  looked  particularly  inviting 
with  the  atmosphere  of  the  street  anything  but 
glacial,  so  we  went  into  its  cool  garden  and  or- 
dered lunch. 

I  had  scarcely  opened  my  Baedeker  when  the 
waiter  brought  me  a  dish  of  ice  for  my  glass  of 
water.  Evidently  there  was  no  need  for  me  to 
wave  a  flag  in  order  to  proclaim  my  nationality. 

After  lunch  we  walked  past  closed  doors  with 
big  iron  knockers  and  open  portals  hung  with 
beaded  portieres,  that  being  as  far  as  Beziers  has 
progressed  in  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  keep- 


208  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ing  out  the  flies.  It  is  another  surface  sewer  town 
with  all  that  is  implied  in  that  statement.  Water 
was  running  in  all  of  the  gutters. 

We  were  looking  for  the  cathedral  of  whose  lo- 
cation most  of  the  inhabitants  were  ignorant. 
Noting  on  the  map  that  it  was  near  Le  Mairie  or 
City  Hall,  we  changed  our  question  and  found 
plenty  of  people  who  could  help  us.  Evidently 
Beziers  is  more  political  than  religious. 

The  view  of  the  valley  from  the  front  of  the 
cathedral  repaid  us  amply  for  the  difficulty  ex- 
perienced in  finding  it. 

Two  or  three  men  were  playing  at  some  kind  of 
street  bowling  with  stone  balls.  We  saw  the 
game  in  progress  in  other  towns  but  did  not 
fathom  its  processes. 

It  will  pay  you  to  visit  the  interior  of  the  cathe- 
dral for  a  look  at  its  stained  glass.  The  west 
rose  window  is  especially  beautiful. 

We  walked  back  through  the  dustiest  town  of 
our  trip  except  Cette,  which  we  visited  on  the 
same  day.  There  was  more  real-estate  activity  in 
those  two  towns,  more  movement  in  really  fine 
real  estate  than  in  any  other  towns  that  we  visited. 

Leaving  Beziers  we  soon  sighted  the  blue  Medi- 
terranean on  our  right  and  all  the  way  to  Cette 
our  track  ran  in  sight  of  the  most  beautiful  large 
body  of  water  on  earth.  Scores  of  lateen  sails 
dotted  the  surface. 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  209 

Azcle  our  second  stop,  is  an  old  town.  She  has 
been  robbed  by  Vandals,  Visigoths,  Saracens, 
Franks  and  Crusaders.  She  got  it  coming  and 
going. 

The  ride  was  cool,  thanks  to  the  sea  breeze. 
On  the  left  were  miles  of  salt  marshes  with  salt 
works  along  their  banks  and  white  crystals  bound- 
ing every  side. 

There  being  nothing  to  see  in  Cette,  we  bar- 
gained for  a  drive  around  the  town.  We  picked 
the  youngest  and  most  persistent  of  the  drivers. 
He  had  a  mettlesome  looking  team.  His  first  price 
was  three  francs  for  an  hour's  ride,  terminating 
at  the  depot.  We  shrugged  our  shoulders  and 
spread  our  palms,  speechless.  He  dropped  to  two 
and  we  climbed  in  and  told  him  to  go  ahead.  As 
soon  as  we  spoke  he  tried  to  advance  the  price 
but  the  market  was  closed.  We  drove  up  and 
down  the  water  front,  past  cafes,  "Inglish"  dance 
halls  and  the  usual  lures  for  sailors.  Then  we 
visited  the  clam  market  and  the  fish  market.  We 
thought  that  nothing  could  smell  worse  than 
the  clams  until  we  struck  the  fish  and  then  we 
apologized  to  the  clams. 

Cette  is  much  more  Italian  than  French  in 
appearance.  It  would  be  hard  for  a  man  igno- 
rant of  the  language  to  determine  the  nationality 
of  any  of  the  people  of  these  Mediterranean 
ports,    whether   French    or   Italian.      Dark-eyed 


2 to  Three  Weeks  in  France 

women,  swarthy  men  and  bewitching,  dirty,  half- 
nude  children  crowd  about  you  at  every  step. 

The  jolly  impudence  of  the  boy  with  vege- 
tables who  held  up  one  hand  as  a  signal  to  our 
driver  to  wait  until  he  pushed  his  cart  across 
the  bridge  was  more  Italian  than  French. 

We  paused  at  a  beautiful  spot  on  the  seashore 
with  scores  of  sailboats  like  sand  flies  all  over 
the  surface  of  the  water.  Our  driver  at  once 
commenced  to  dilate  on  the  beauty  of  the  Cor- 
niche  Road  and  to  argue  the  merits  of  a  long 
drive.  We  told  him  we  had  not  the  time  for  it. 
Then  he  started  to  drive  out  the  Corniche  Road 
anyhow.  Our  perfect  accent  saved  us.  We 
said  "Return  to  the  city  instantly."  He  gave 
his  whip  an  angry  crack,  whirled  his  horses  with 
an  entire  disregard  of  the  law  of  gravity  and 
how  we  did  burn  up  that  road  on  our  way  back 
to  town! 

We  said :    "Drive  to  the  Grand  Hotel  at  5  40. " 

He  said,  "Yes,  but  that  will  be  more  than  an 
hour.     You  started  at  4:30." 

We  said,  "Very  well.  Go  to  the  hotel  at  5  :3c 
We  have  smelled  everything  in  this  town  any- 
how." 

Another  whirl,  and  as  I  look  back  with  my 
mind's  eye,  I  cannot  see  how  we  did  it,  but  we 
dashed  up  the  narrow  street  to  the  hotel  between 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  211 

a  double  row  of  curses  not  loud,  but  deep,  with- 
out injuring  anyone. 

Dinner  would  not  be  ready  until  six  o'clock, 
but  bless  you,  that  made  no  difference  to  the  head 
waiter.  We  were  shown  into  the  dining  room 
where  in  five  minutes  the  opening  course  of  an 
excellent  dinner  was  put  before  us.  Was  there 
an  extra  charge?  On  the  contrary,  we  were 
not  required  to  pay  the  full  rate  because  a  course 
or  two  was  missing. 

In  France,  the  hotel  guest  is  a  customer  who 
must  be  satisfied,  not  a  humble  petitioner  await- 
ing the  pleasure  of  a  potentate.  A  criticism  is 
investigated  and  always  the  attitude  of  respect- 
ful service  is  maintained.  It  is  not  taken  for 
granted  that  fate  has  thrown  you  an  unwilling 
and  transient  victim  into  the  power  of  the  hotel 
keeper  to  be  kept  in  your  subordinate  sphere, 
snubbed  and  charged  the  maximum  for  haughty 
service  grudgingly  rendered.  You  are  regarded 
as  a  guest,  a  source  of  present  profit  and  future 
good-will,  but  always  as  the  one  whose  wishes 
must  dominate. 

After  dinner  we  walked  to  the  depot  through 
a  dust  storm  that  would  have  turned  western 
Kansas  green — with  envy.  It  was  positively 
blinding. 

At  the  station,  not  finding  a  licensed  porter, 
we  turned  our  claim  checks  over  to  a  picturesque 


212  Three  Weeks  in  France 

brigand  and  he  carried  our  suit  cases  as  far  as 
the  gate-man  who  told  him  that  he  must  have  a 
ticket.  We  were  embarrassed.  Not  he.  He  bor- 
rowed a  ticket  from  a  friend,  hustled  us  aboard 
and  returned  the  borrowed  ticket  in  ample  time 
to  permit  his  friend  to  catch  the  train.  So  human 
were  we,  that  we  paid  the  rascal  an  extra  tip 
because  he  was  to  a  degree  outlawed. 

This  is  the  heart  of  the  wine-growing  district. 
Four  provinces  of  which  Pau  and  Bordeaux  are 
centers  produced  from  two  hundred  and  fifty  to 
three  hundred  million  dollars  worth  of  wine  last 
year  and  present  prospects  are  for  a  larger  crop 
at  better  prices  this  year. 

That  means  that  the  wine  growers  will  have 
more  money  to  spend  than  ever  and  they  will 
spend  it,  not  like  lords,  nor  like  sailors,  but  like 
wine  growers.  For  when  it  comes  to  getting 
nothing  for  something,  a  jack  tar  in  from  a  six 
months  cruise  is  a  Napoleon  of  Finance  com- 
pared to  a  wine  grower  who  has  sold  his  crop. 

He  gambles  and  loafs  around  his  provincial 
cafe,  drinking,  carousing,  and  singing.  He  fre- 
quently visits  Monte  Carlo.  But  whatever  he 
does,  he  has  nothing  to  show  for  an  income  of 
five  or  ten  thousand  dollars  by  spring,  except 
some  jewelry  or  furs  for  his  wife,  and  some  orna- 
ments for  the  parlor  mantel.  He  does  not  bank 
his  money  but  if  he  saves  any,  it  is  either  con- 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  213 

cealed  about  the  premises  or  invested  in  govern- 
ment bonds.  Modern  banking  is  almost  unknown 
in  France. 

As  long  as  the  wine  growers  are  willing  to 
borrow  on  growing  crops  at  a  good  rate  of  in- 
terest, the  lenders  see  no  use  in  encouraging  sav- 
ings banks.  Paying  bills  by  check  is  almost  un- 
known. 

Another  illustration  of  their  short-sighted, 
childish  pride;  they  are  wine  growers  and  con- 
sider it  beneath  them  to  raise  any  other  crop  or 
to  own  or  care  for  stock  of  any  kind.  Con- 
sequently they  will  not  even  keep  milk  cows. 
They  buy  milk,  cream,  butter,  and  cheese.  You 
can  ride  for  miles  through  the  vineyard  regions 
and  never  see  a  four-footed  beast  near  a  wine 
growers  house. 

In  1907,  two  million  people  marched  quietly 
to  Montpellier  as  a  protest  against  the  manu- 
facture of  adulterated  wines.  Their  leader,  a 
wine  grower,  was  permitted  to  present  his  argu- 
ment before  the  Deputies  in  Paris  and  a  law  was 
passed,  a  sort  of  pure-drink  law,  as  a  result. 

I  like  to  think  of  Montpellier  as  the  headquar- 
ters of  fearless  peasantry.  For  it  was  the  home 
of  many  Camisards  and  here  it  was.  Stevenson 
tells  us,  that  a  prophetess  was  hanged  because 
blood  flowed  from  her  eyes  and  nose,  and  she 


214  Three  Weeks  in  France 

declared  she  was  weeping  tears  of  blood  for  the 
misfortunes  of  the  Protestants. 

The  19 10  riots  were  in  the  Champagne  district 
and  were  due  to  adulteration  also,  in  a  way.  The 
growers  objected  to  the  practice  of  bringing  out- 
side white  wines  into  the  district,  treating  them 
and  selling  them  as  champagne.  Many  ware- 
houses were  burned  and  many  vines  destroyed. 

You  can  build  a  warehouse  in  three  months 
but  it  requires  three  years  to  bring  a  vine  to 
fruitage,  so  the  Champagne  neighborhood  still 
feels  the  effects  of  the  19 10  riots. 

These  are  the  people  who  paid  a  large  share  of 
the  Franco-Prussian  War  indemnity.  They 
work  about  four  months  each  year  and  reap  a 
harvest  of  five  or  ten  thousand  dollars  from  fifty 
to  a  hundred  acres  of  vines.  Pointing  out  the 
car  window  at  the  sea  of  green,  reaching  the 
horizon  in  every  direction  our  informant  said: 
"In  three  months,  that  will  be  money." 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  land  hereabouts  is  almost 
priceless  and  vineyards  are  largely  in  the  same 
families  which  bought  or  acquired  them  at  the 
time  of  the  French  Revolution? 

For  all  that,  the  wine  grower  remains  a  peasant, 
ignorant,  unrefined,  distrusting  his  neighbor  and 
distrusting  the  banks. 

The  Minister  of  the  Interior  is  the  big  man 
in  the  French  Government.     The  President  of 


[.A    MA  IS'  i.\"   <  \\  i:i:kk      NIMKS 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  215 

the  Republic  goes  to  the  banquets,  lays  the  corner 
stones  and  kisses  the  babies,  but  the  Minister  of 
the  Interior  appoints  the  Prefects  of  the  eighty- 
seven  departments. 

The  patriotism  of  the  French  politician  reaches 
a  height  that  sounds  like  an  iridescent  dream  to 
an  American.  There  are  in  the  present  cabinet 
three  men  who  have  been  prime  ministers  and 
are  now  willing  to  serve  their  country  in  subor- 
dinate positions. 

The  President  is  elected  by  the  Senate  and 
Chamber  of  Deputies  for  seven  years.  There 
is  no  law  against  his  re-election,  but  the  practice 
is  to  retire  gracefully  at  the  expiration  of  the 
term. 

If  there  are  any  Jews  in  southern  France,  to 
quote  William  Dean  Howells,  they  do  not  show 
their  noses.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  are  thou- 
sands of  them,  but  they  have  lived  here  for  over 
seven  centuries  and  are  difficult  to  distinguish 
from  their  Christian  neighbors  either  by  fea- 
tures or  accent. 

On  the  contrary,  the  Jews  of  Paris  and  the 
north  came  in  with  Napoleon  and  can  easily  be 
known.  As  a  rule  their  names  are  German  rather 
than  French. 

England  is  still  severely  critised  by  well-in- 
formed Frenchmen  for  her  treatment  of  Napo- 
leon after  Waterloo.     The  same  Frenchmen  ad- 


216  Three  Weeks  in  France 

mit  that  from  Moscow  on,  Napoleon  fought  not 
for  France  but  for  his  own  glory.  But  they 
think  that  after  Waterloo  he  was  too  sick  a 
man  physically  to  have  required  the  isolation  of 
St.  Helena. 

At  Nimes,  with  a  cupola  over  the  "i,"  we  found 
an  up-to-date  hotel  with  an  electric-lighted  room 
and  a  bathtub  resembling  a  small  natatorium. 
The  rates  were  American,  but  so  were  the  sur- 
roundings plus  French  service.  The  hotel  em- 
ploys an  auto-bus  to  convey  its  guests  to  and 
from  the  station.  The  Nimes'  cornet  band  was 
discoursing  sweet  music  from  the  center  of  the 
public  square.  This  was  mentioned  as  an  in- 
ducement but  the  manageress,  seeing  our  faces 
change,  instantly  said,  "But  it  stops  at  ten  sharp." 

The  whole  town  apparently  was  at  the  side- 
walk cafes  surrounding  the  square.  They  were 
a  well-dressed,  orderly  crowd  and  seemed  to  be 
enjoying  the  music  and  the  wine  to  the  fullest 
extent. 

Baedeker  speaks  of  Nimes  as  having  80,600 
inhabitants  "including  about  20,000  Protestants." 
This  manner  of  listing  Protestants  is  so  much 
like  our  "paupers,  Chinamen  and  Indians,  not 
taxed"  in  the  census  at  home  that  we  at  once 
disliked  it. 

The  town  is  full  of  antiquities.  I  will  not 
mention  the  name  of  the  town  with  great  fre- 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  217 


quency  for  fear  of  running  out  of  "i"  shades, 
but  you  will  remember  where  we  are. 

That  is  why  we  came  here.  We  revel  in  an- 
tiquities. Anything  that  has  been  dead  for  sev- 
eral centuries  is  a  safe  subject  for  eulogy.  You 
can  depend  on  it  that  anything  adverse  has  died 
down  in  that  time. 

Rome  did  a  great  deal  for  Nimes  and  when 
Rome  did  anything  for  or  to  a  community,  she 
did  it  well.  She  embellished  the  city  with  a 
number  of  public  buildings,  many  of  which  are 
still  standing.  Some  of  them  have  stood  more 
than  others.  The  Coliseum  is  an  example  of  the 
latter.  Bull  rights  are  now  held  there  on  Sun- 
days in  the  summer  time.  If  the  spirits  of  those 
who  formerly  staged  the  combats  could  survey 
the  scene  to-day,  with  Christians  in  the  seats  ap- 
plauding the  slaughter  of  innocent  cattle,  they 
might  regret  that  they  had  not  done  their  work 
more  thoroughly. 

The  Maison  Carree  is  a  beautiful  Roman 
temple  that  looks  enough  like  a  Stock  Exchange 
to  make  you  feel  for  your  watch.  It  has  thirty 
Corinthian  columns,  beautifully  fluted  and  with 
ornately  carved  capitals.  The  capitals  should  be 
studied.  The  building  was  coincident  with  the 
Christian  religion  and  is  considerably  less 
changed.  It  stands  alone  amid  the  debris  of  the 
magnificent   edifices   which   once   surrounded   it. 


218  Three  Weeks  in  France 

One  is  curious  to  know  the  name  of  the  contrac- 
tor.   But  what  is  the  use?    He  is  probably  dead. 

There  are  many  other  Roman  remains  here, 
some  of  them  in  the  magnificent  Public  Garden. 
When  Baedeker  stars  a  Public  Garden,  you  are 
safe  in  assuming  that  it  is  a  wonder,  and' Baedeker 
stars  the  Jardin  de  la  Fontaine.  If  he  had  not 
such  a  judicial  temperament  he  would  double 
star  it.    It  is  worth  it. 

Jean  Nicot  who  introduced  tobacco  into  France 
was  born  at  Nimes  in  1530.  I  would  have  said 
"here"  and  saved  that  portico,  but  I  did  not  want 
you  to  think  that  Nicot  was  born  in  the  Jardin. 
Nicotine  carried  him  off  in  1610,  a  victim  to  its 
lingering  but  fatal  caresses  at  the  age  of  eighty. 
If  he  could  revisit  France  to-day  and  see  some 
of  the  amber-tipped  cigarette  smokers  walking  the 
streets  he  would  probably  say  "I  introduced  to- 
bacco into  France — not  cigarettes." 

Guizot,  the  historian  and  Daudet  the  writer  are 
among  those  whom  Nimes  is  proud  to  call  her 
sons. 

There  is  a  large  Protestant  cemetery  on  the 
hillside,  largely  filled  by  Catholics,  especially  after 
the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  That  is, 
the  Catholics  filled  it  with  Protestants. 

The  Edict  of  Nantes  was  the  sop  thrown  by 
Henry  of  Navarre  to  his  former  co-religionists  in 
1598.   It  gave  to  Protestants  liberty  of  conscience 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  219 

and  liberty  of  worship  in  their  own  castles  and 
in  towns  where  worship  was  already  established. 
Under  it  Protestants  could  hold  office  and  teach 
school.  Certain  towns  were  given  to  them  in 
guarantee  and  chambers  equally  divided  between 
Protestants  and  Catholics  were  to  give  judgments 
in  the  parliaments  of  Paris,  Toulouse,  Grenoble 
and  Bordeaux  in  cases  where  Protestants  were 
parties.  They  were  also  allowed  to  assemble 
every  three  years  by  representatives  to  present 
complaints.  All  of  this  was  revoked  in  1685  by 
his  Most  Christian  Majesty,  Louis  XIV. 

Hotel  rates  in  France  are  low.  Of  course  we 
paid  the  top-notch  but  native  commercial  travelers 
can  get  a  room  and  three  meals  at  most  of  the 
first-class  hotels  for  $1.70  a  day  while  mem- 
bers of  the  Road  Club  or  Touring  Club  pay  $1.80 
for  the  same  accommodations.  We  paid  on  an 
average  $2.40  a  day  each  for  corresponding 
service. 

Tickets  to  bull  fights  cost  from  sixty  cents  to 
three  dollars  each.  The  amphitheatre  is  in  front 
of  the  Hotel  Cheval  Blanc  right  in  the  heart  of 
the  city.  Although  we  did  not  stop  at  that  hotel, 
nevertheless  B.  tackled  the  concierge  thereof  for 
permission  to  photograph  the  amphitheatre  or 
Coliseum  from  an  upper  window,  and  obtained 
it.  If  we  never  get  to  heaven,  nine  chances  out 
of  ten,  we  will  borrow  a  harp  from  some  good- 


220  Three  Weeks  in  France 

natured  angel  and  have  it  passed  over  the  jasper 
walls. 

Inside  the  immense  arena,  with  its  seating  ca- 
pacity of  twenty- four  thousand  they  were  put- 
ting up  a  temporary  stage  with  a  few  hundred 
chairs  in  front  of  it.  We  inquired  and  found 
that  a  vaudeville  performance  was  to  be  given 
that  night.  Shades  of  Xero !  No  wonder  the 
old  stone  seats  were  in  tiers ! 

We  had  an  opportunity  to  study  the  arrange- 
ments of  a  first  century  place  of  amusement  and 
slaughter,  including  the  royal  box,  the  gladiators' 
entrance  and  the  hundreds  of  vomitoriums  or 
exits. 

Inside  the  Maison  Carree  is  an  interesting 
museum  of  ancient  and  modern  antiquities.  Per- 
haps the  greatest  curiosities  are  some  United 
States  gold  pieces  donated  by  wealthy  New  York- 
ers. The  name  of  the  donor  is  prominently  dis- 
played beneath  each  coin.  A  real  curiosity  would 
be  an  anonymous  donation  from  the  same  source. 
There  is  none.  We  donated  a  French  coin  of  the 
second  Empire,  value  fifty  centimes,  but  with- 
held our  name  and  the  concierge  placed  it  in  his 
private  collection. 

There  is  a  twenty  dollar  gold  piece  given  by 
Senator  Clark,  of  Helena,  N.  Y.,  from  his  scanty 
store.  I  resisted  a  temptation  to  list  the  names 
but  most  of  them  are  in  the  Newport  cables  to 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  221 

the  Paris  edition  of  the  New  York  Herald  at  least 
once  a  week.  It  is  a  good  thing  that  there  are 
other  ways  of  getting  into  the  newspapers  than 
by  committing  crimes.  Else  we  fear  that  crime 
would  increase  among  our  very  best  people. 

There  are  many  other  exhibits  in  the  museum, 
including  coins  of  all  ages  and  countries. 

We  went  past  the  statue  of  Antoninus  Pius 
who  died  in  161,  a  member  of  one  of  the  first 
families.  The  statue  is  a  copy  and  was  made  in 
1874. 

We  left  our  carriage  at  the  Jardin  gate  and 
walked  to  the  Fountain,  placed  in  the  center  of 
the  ancient  ladies'  baths.  Louis  XV  embellished 
this  fountain  in  flamboyant  style  with  cupids, 
nymphs  and  others  of  the  great  unclothed. 

The  original  marble  of  the  old  baths  is  in  the 
Louvre.  Formerly  a  canopy  supported  by  four 
columns  covered  the  space  occupied  by  the  foun- 
tain and  here  was  where  the  bathers  gossiped  as 
they  dried  themselves. 

The  fountain  is  fed  by  a  spring  from  the  hill 
above.  One  of  the  original  columns  is  in  the 
temple  of  Diana  to  which  we  next  wended  our 
way  through  a  blinding  sand  storm. 

Baedeker  says  this  was  probably  a  Nymphaeum, 
which  reminds  us  of  Samuel  Johnson's  method  of 
defining  a  word  by  using  less  known  words.  We 
hazard  a  guess,  however,  that  the  nymphs  from 


222  Three  Weeks  in  France 

the  baths  came  here  for  afternoon  tea.  They 
were  probably  dryades. 

Within  it  is  a  curious  Byzantine  bas  relief  of 
the  head  of  Christ,  dating  from  the  sixth  century. 
The  roof  of  the  temple  is  on  three  levels,  thus 
admitting  the  light  (some)  and  excluding  the 
rain  (a  little). 

We  returned  to  the  hotel  in  time  to  pay  our 
bill  and  catch  the  bus  for  the  train.  At  the  last 
moment  we  inserted  Remoulins  in  our  schedule 
in  order  to  visit  the  Pont  du  Gard.  This  was 
part  of  a  twenty-five  mile  aqueduct  built  19  B.  C. 
by  Agrippa,  son-in-law  of  Augustus  Caesar.  The 
part  now  used  as  a  bridge  is  880  feet  long  and 
160  feet  high,  resting  on  a  triple  tier  of  arches 
diminishing  as  they  ascend.  There  are  six, 
eleven  and  thirty-five  arches  respectively  in  each 
tier.  It  was  built  entirely  without  cement  except 
in  the  bed  of  the  canal  on  top,  through  which  the 
water  was  conveyed  to  Nimes.  The  structure 
was  damaged  in  the  fifth  century  by  barbarians. 
It  is  pretty  well  initialed  now  by  later  barbarians. 
It  was  restored  in  1855-8  by  that  great  restorer 
Napoleon  III. 

Arriving  at  Remoulins  we  left  our  train  to  its 
sole  other  occupant,  the  postman,  and  deposited 
our  baggage  in  the  check  room.  Carriages  for 
the  Pont.du  Gard  meet  every  train.  It  is  a  fifteen 
minute  ride  and  on  July  19th  was  a  very  dusty 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  223 

one.  Our  driver  went  half  a  mile  out  of  his  way 
to  accommodate  a  non-paying  friend,  after  which 
we  resumed  our  course  to  the  bridge. 

Our  drive  terminated  at  a  wayside  inn,  where 
in  spite  of  heat,  dust  and  weariness  we  were 
obliged  to  walk  another  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the 
bridge,  up  hill  all  the  way.  We  took  a  rather 
steep  path  to  the  top.  There  is  less  climbing  but 
more  walking  if  you  cross  the  river  by  the  lower 
bridge  and  ascend  the  steps  on  the  opposite  side. 
We  thought  it  a  stiff  bit  of  Alpine  work  until 
we  started  to  explore  a  descensus  Averni  on  the 
other  side  of  the  bridge  which  was  anything  but 
facilis. 

First  we  must  tell  you  that  we  encountered  a 
sergeant  of  Zouaves  at  the  top  of  the  bridge.  He 
was  such  a  picture  of  a  Chasseur  d'Afrique  that 
we  made  bold  to  ask  him  if  he  would  pose  for  us. 
He  would  be  enchanted  but  would  madame  in- 
clude the  baby  also?  Mystified,  we  acquiesced 
and  he  disappeared  in  the  bush  with  that  dis- 
tinctly paternal  call  that  distinguishes  the  male 
parent.  Soon  he  reappeared  with  a  smiling 
mother  and  a  fearless  big-eyed  infant.  The 
soldier  took  the  child  in  his  arms  and  the  two 
made  a  charming  picture.  Then  the  baby  pro- 
ceeded to  work  on  his  next  tooth  with  the  "big 
sou"  handed  to  him.  He  said  what  his  fond 
mother  assured  us  was  "merci"  and  as  we  left, 


224  Three  Weeks  in  France 

"bonjour,"  using  the  same  sounds.  However, 
the  mother  understood  him,  God  bless  her,  as  no 
one  but  mothers  ever  understand  us. 

Then  came  our  descent !  We  thought  it  a  path 
but  it  must  have  been  the  dry  bed  of  some  un- 
usually reckless  mountain  brook.  No  goat,  at 
least  no  four-legged  goat — had  ever  attempted 
it,  for  there  were  no  mangled  remains  at  the 
bottom. 

After  we  had  scraped  along  over  loose  rocks 
and  slippery  leaves  for  several  yards,  holding  on 
by  roots  and  branches,  we  concluded  to  return. 
Rash  conclusion !  To  descend  was  difficult,  to  go 
back  was  impossible.  The  path  behind  us  had 
closed  as  if  by  magic.  Steps  that  had  been  three 
feet  down  were  six  feet  up. 

We  resolved  to  record  names  and  address  in 
our  journal  and  take  a  final  plunge.  Writing 
thus  in  the  first  person  robs  the  narrative  of  its 
due  amount  of  thrill,  for  you  know  that  event- 
ually we  reached  bottom,  but  the  difficulties  really 
were  formidable  and  the  distance,  one  hundred 
and  sixty  feet,  too  great  for  a  comfortable  drop. 
Not  only  were  there  sticks  and  stones  to  break 
our  bones,  but  brambles  to  tear  our  only  clothes. 
But  we  emerged  finally  with  eyes  and  outer  integ- 
ument intact. 

We  ate  lunch  under  an  arbor  at  the  little  inn. 
Everything  was  home  grown  and  delicious.     We 


Beziers,  Cette  and  Nimes  225 

were  entirely  surrounded  by  hungry  chickens 
which  ate  off  our  hands  and  almost  ate  our  hands 
off,  if  we  were  slow  in  waiting  on  them.  One 
turkey,  half -grown,  rinding  the  floor  service  in- 
adequate jumped  upon  the  table  and  had  to  be 
removed  by  the  waitress. 

A  bull  dog  and  a  French  poodle  joined  our 
merry  throng,  coming  in  with  the  meat  course. 
A  party  of  six  wine  growers  on  a  fishing  excur- 
sion made  merry  at  an  adjoining  table.  Occa- 
sionally my  empty  hand  would  hang  down  at  my 
side  and  in  every  instance  it  would  receive  an 
admonitory  peck  from  some  hungry  hen.  Later 
when  chicken  was  served,  we  felt  almost  like  we 
were  eating  a  member  of  the  family. 


2j6  Marseilles 


1 


XV 

Marseilles 

j  UR  conveyance  reached  Remoulins  forty 
minutes  ahead  of  train  time  but  we 
were  not  permitted  to  buy  our  tickets 
to  Marseilles  until  twenty  minutes  had 
elapsed. 

We  passed  through  Beaucaire  and  crossed  the 
swift  flowing  Rhone  to  Tarascon  on  the  opposite 
bank.  At  the  latter  town,  the  track  for  Mar- 
seilles crossed  the  other  at  right  angles  and  we 
changed  cars.  A  multitude  of  signs  made  mis- 
takes impossible. 

The  guide  books  mention  Daudet  and  his  ro- 
mance of  "The  Prodigious  Adventures  of  Tar- 
tarin  of  Tarascon."  France  joins  the  rest  of  the 
world  in  laughing  at  this  typical  braggart  of 
Southern  France.  Except  to  furnish  a  name  for 
the  hero  of  Booth  Tarkington's  cameo  delineation 
of  a  brave  French  gentleman,  Beaucaire  does  not 
figure  prominently  in  literature. 

We  skirted  the  Rhone  all  the  way  to  Mar- 
seilles, but  not  close  enough  to  wet  our  skirts. 


Marseilles  227 

After  Rabele  we  went  though  a  lot  of  scrubby- 
looking  prairie  country  with  long  sections  of  the 
track  protected  from  the  mistral  by  closely 
planted  cypress  trees.  The  mistral  is  the  cold, 
raw  wind  that  sweeps  down  from  the  mountains 
almost  any  time  of  the  year,  but  in  the  winter  it 
brings  snow  in  its  trail. 

Just  before  entering  Marseilles,  the  railroad 
passes  through  the  longest  tunnel  in  France,  three 
miles  of  un ventilated  darkness.  After  emerging 
we  sighted  the  islands  of  Pomeguis,  Ratonneau 
and  If,  the  latter  Monte  Cristo's  island. 

Steamboat  excursions  run  from  Marseilles  out 
to  Isle  d'lf,  where  gaping  tourists  are  shown  the 
Chateau  d'lf  and  Monte  Cristo's  cell,  with  as 
much  impressiveness  as  if  he  had  really  existed. 
It  is  a  wonderful  tribute  to  the  impressive  real- 
ism of  Dumas.  They  even  show  you  the  place 
where  Monte  Cristo's  body  struck  the  water.  It 
is  still  wet.  Monte  Cristo  is  much  more  of  a 
reality  to  most  tourists  than  Mirabeau,  who  act- 
ually was  imprisoned  there. 

Marseilles  has  the  most  prominent  harbor  in 
France.  It  is  the  principal  port  for  Algeria  and 
excursions  run  over  there  two  or  three  times  a 
week. 

At  the  depot  we  landed  in  a  queer  jumble  of 
French,  Turks  and  Italians.  We  auto-bussed  to 
a  hotel  on  the  harbor  and  just  off  the  Cannebiere. 


22%  Three  Weeks  in  France 

The  Cannebiere  is  one  of  those  unfortunate 
streets  that  suffers  from  too  much  press  agentry. 
The  Marseilles  citizens  say  "If  Paris  had  a  Can- 
nebiere it  would  be  a  little  Marseilles."  If  it  had 
nothing  more  impressive  than  the  Cannebiere  it 
would  be  a  very  little  Marseilles.  The  boast 
damages  a  street  which  if  not  dragged  into  the 
limelight  is  a  very  fair  avenue,  not  extremely 
long,  nor  extraordinarily  wide,  nor  very  bril- 
liantly illuminated,  nor  markedly  gay,  but  a  per- 
fectly good  street  on  which  to  walk  or  drive. 

We  motored  down  it,  found  our  hotel  and  se- 
cured a  room  with  an  iron-railed  balcony  and 
there  we  sat  with  the  busy  city  beneath  us  and 
the  Old  Harbor  in  front  filled  with  masts  and 
having  the  setting  sun  for  a  background.  Boats 
for  the  Chateau  dTf  with  bunting  flying  were 
ready  for  the  morrow's  excursions.  Autos 
honked  past.  The  jangle  of  street  car  bells  min- 
gled with  the  rattle  of  cabs.  Carts  rumbled  along 
more  slowly.  Pedestrians  used  either  sidewalk 
or  street  as  the  mood  struck  them.  An  occas- 
ional motor  truck  disputed  the  crossing  with  a 
half-dozen  triple  tandem  teams.  Newsboys  and 
girls  called  their  wares  vigorously.  Marseilles 
is  not  an  anti-noise  city. 

A  huge  transporter  bridge  swung  lazily  back 
and  forth  across  the  harbor.  Two  soldiers 
paused  beneath  us  to  light  their  cigarettes.     A 


Marseilles  229 


bearded  priest  in  long  black  gown  strolled  leis- 
urely across  the  street.  France  has  broken  the 
hold  of  the  church  and  some  day  will  lessen  the 
drain  of  the  army.  When  she  does  the  imagina- 
tion halts  in  its  efforts  to  conceive  her  prosperity. 

Marseilles  is  a  big  city  with  half  a  million 
people  and  a  history  going  back  twenty-five  hun- 
dred years.  It  was  not  our  intention  to  "see"  it 
at  all.  We  planned  to  sample  its  bouillabaisse 
at  one  of  its  celebrated  restaurants,  see  an  act  or 
two  of  vaudeville  and  have  a  good  night's  rest 
before  visiting  the  French  Riviera.  It  was  out 
of  season  for  bouillabaisse  and  the  vaudeville 
was  a  disappointment,  but  we  slept  nineteen  to 
the  dozen. 

Marseilles  antedates  Roman  civilization.  It 
was  a  Greek  settlement.  Julius  Caesar  took  it  in 
49  B.  C.  Christianity  is  said  to  have  been  intro- 
duced here  by  Lazarus,  brother  of  Mary  and 
Martha. 

It  was  conquered  by  all  the  usual  conquerors 
in  regular  order:  Visigoths,  Franks  and  Sara- 
cens. It  did  not  become  a  part  of  France  until  a 
few  years  before  America  was  discovered  and 
was  always  rather  independent  in  its  attitude  to- 
wards the  powers  that  sought  to  govern  it.  It 
was  loyal  to  Louis  XVI  when  his  troubles  com- 
menced, or  rather,  it  was  against  the  govern- 
ment, whatever  the  government  might  be. 


230  Three  Weeks  in  France 

Its  gang  was  conspicuous  at  the  attack  on  the 
Tuileries  and  sang  de  lTsle's  "Marseillaise," 
which,  born  an  outcast,  is  now  the  French  na- 
tional air. 

Algeria  and  the  Suez  Canal  have  each  added 
to  the  importance  of  Marseilles  as  a  port. 

The  great  engineer  Vauban,  who  engineered 
things  for  Louis  XIV,  built  the  big  gray  fort  to 
our  right.  On  the  other  fort,  the  newer  one,  is 
a  plate  bearing  an  inscription  placed  there  in 
1899  in  memory  of  Marseilles'  twenty-five  hun- 
dredth birthday. 

We  ate  at  the  Restaurant  Basso  and  Brigail- 
lon,  famed  for  its  bouillabaisse,  but  alas  it  was 
the  closed  season  for  bouillabaisse.  They  only 
bite  in  cold  weather.  We  were  also  told  that  arti- 
chokes were  bad  form  after  July  15th.  Later  we 
disproved  this  and  found  that  they  were  not  only 
good  form  but  excellent  taste  all  through  the 
summer. 

Every  child  whom  we  saw  in  Marseilles  and 
nearly  every  woman  and  a  great  many  men  had 
beautiful  eyes.  But  for  the  language  we  would 
have  sworn  we  were  in  Italy. 

Our  waiter  was  so  efficient  that  we  gave  him 
a  liberal  tip.  To  our  disappointment  he  put  it 
in  a  tin  box  where  it  became  part  of  the  common 
fund  divided  weekly. 

Some  details  of  a  first  class  Marseilles  restau- 


Marseilles  231 


rant  may  interest  you.  We  dined  a  la  carte  and 
accepted  the  suggestions  of  our  middle-aged 
waiter  both  as  to  items  and  quantity.  First  he 
brought  us  a  fried  sole,  smoking  hot,  which  he 
skillfully  dissected  in  front  of  us,  removing  the 
bones,  or  you  might  say  separating  sole  from 
body,  without  leaving  a  bone  with  the  fish  or 
very  much  fish  with  the  bone.  Then  came  an 
excellent  beefsteak  which  was  apportioned  with 
proper  recognition  of  the  superior  demands  of 
the  masculine  appetite.  With  this  course  were 
fried  potatoes,  puffed  like  young  dirigibles,  and 
peas  seasoned  as  only  a  French  cook  can  season 
them.  There  was,  of  course,  bread  and  butter 
and  salad,  the  latter  wisely  left  in  the  waiter's 
hands  to  prepare. 

He  wanted  us  to  stop  after  the  salad,  but  we 
asked  him  for  fruit,  notwithstanding  the  warning 
of  traveled  friends  as  to  the  price  of  peaches  in 
France. 

A  basket  was  brought  heaped  with  plums,  apri- 
cots and  peaches  and  left  on  the  table  to  do  its 
deadly  work.  We  limited  ourselves  to  a  peach, 
a  plum  and  an  apricot,  each  a  giant  of  its  species 
and  of  perfect  color  and  flavor.  Our  total  bill 
was  $1.76  figuring  francs  at  twenty  cents  each, 
which  is  about  four  per  cent  too  high.  This  in- 
cluded a  charge  for  bread,  butter  and  "covers." 
Our  waiter  had  figured  on  giving  us  a  good  din- 


232  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ner  at  four  francs  each.  Our  request  for  fruit 
had  added  sixteen  cents  to  the  bill.  This  was  in 
one  of  the  best  restaurants  in  Marseilles. 

Our  walk  down  the  Cannebiere  after  the 
vaudeville  was  interesting  but  not  exciting.  The 
street  was  well,  but  not  brilliantly,  lighted.  The 
advertising  man  had  not  come  to  the  rescue  of 
the  municipality  in  the  matter  of  illumination  as 
on  Broadway.  The  sidewalks  were  filled  with 
strollers. 

Altogether  the  proverb  regarding  the  Canne- 
biere has  little  justification  and  only  serves  to 
illustrate  the  good-natured  egotism  of  the  Pro- 
vencal and  to  prove  that  bragging  about  the  home 
town  is  not  exclusively  a  characteristic  of  a  new 
civilization. 

Cabs  are  forty  cents  an  hour.  Taxis  are  not — 
do  not  exist  in  Marseilles.  Car  fare  is  two  cents 
anywhere  within  the  city  and  no  transfers  are 
given. 

We  drove  down  to  the  transporter  bridge  and 
were  wafted  across  like  so  much  small  change  in 
a  cash  railway.  The  charge  for  carriage  and 
party  was  ten  cents. 

Our  cab  horse  was  formerly  in  the  cavalry. 
He  paused  at  uncertain  intervals.  He  did  not 
exactly  balk,  but  went  through  a  sort  of  time- 
marking  operation.     His  military  habits  cost  us 


Marseilles  233 


an  extra  franc  and  nearly  caused  us  to  miss  our 
train. 

We  had  been  delayed  in  leaving  the  hotel  by  a 
Scotchman  who  was  attempting  to  tell  the  French 
lady  in  charge  how  to  make  porridge.  Conse- 
quently we  were  additionally  embarrassed  by  the 
maneuvres  of  the  cab  horse.  As  always,  we 
found  that  we  had  plenty  of  time  and  that  our 
hurry  was  more  a  matter  of  habit  than  necessity. 


234  Monte  Carlo 


XVI 

Monte  Carlo 


H"  ROM  Marseilles  to  Monte  Carlo  the  rail- 
road goes  between  the  mountains  and 
the  sea,  with  the  Corniche  Road  run- 
ning like  a  white  ribbon  between  us 
and  the  Mediterranean. 

This  part  of  the  country  witnessed  Napoleon's 
start  and  finish.  We  passed  Toulon  where  his 
suggestion  as  to  the  disposition  of  the  besieging 
artillery  led  to  the  capture  of  the  city  and  at- 
tracted the  favorable  attention  of  the  Convention. 

Here  also  was  his  point  of  departure  when  he 
set  sail  for  Egypt,  May  19,  1798.  His  star  of 
destiny  was  in  the  ascendant.  He  bade  Josephine 
good-bye  "for  two  months."  Five  hundred  sail 
set  forth  on  the  Mediterranean  with  forty  thou- 
sand soldiers  and  ten  thousand  sailors.  If  the 
enemy  had  stumbled  onto  this  over-loaded  fleet, 
Napoleon's  star  would  have  set  right  there.  His 
ships  were  so  crowded  with  men  and  artillery  as 
to  make  maneuvring  impossible.  Even  a  victory 
would  have  ended  his  expedition.    A  smooth  sea 


Monte  Carlo  235 


and  complete  immunity  from  attack  were  neces- 
sary. It  was  a  100  to  1  shot  and  Napoleon  ac- 
cepted the  odds.  His  confidence  was  contagious. 
A  squall  on  May  19  drove  the  English  fleet  into 
the  offing  and  it  took  Brittania  until  June  1  to 
make  repairs  and  resume  her  rule  of  the  waves. 
By  that  time  Napoleon  was  twelve  days  on  his 
way. 

Napoleon  landed  at  St.  Raphael,  a  little  far- 
ther along  the  coast,  when  he  returned  from 
Egypt  and  hastened  to  Paris,  maddened  by  jeal- 
ousy, to  investigate  scandalous  rumors  affecting 
Josephine  repeated  to  him  by  his  brothers. 

Convinced  of  Josephine's  loyalty,  he  did  not 
divorce  her  until  satisfied  that  she  would  never 
bear  an  heir  to  the  throne.  From  their  estrange- 
ment dates  his  gradual  downfall. 

Fate  played  him  a  sorry  trick,  for  his  son  by 
Maria  Louisa  died  at  twenty-one,  while  a  grand- 
son of  Josephine  in  the  person  of  Napoleon  III 
sat  on  the  throne  of  France  for  twenty  years. 

At  St.  Raphael,  Napoleon  disembarked  for  his 
brief  sojourn  at  Elba.  Still  farther  along  the 
coast,  near  Golfe-Juan-Vallauris,  a  column  marks 
the  spot  where  he  landed  on  his  return  from 
Elba. 

Napoleon  was  everything  from  a  vain,  egotis- 
tical demagogue  to  the  greatest  military  leader 
the  world  has  ever  known.     He  played  on  the 


236  Three  Weeks  in  France 

vanity  of  the  French  people  and  they  gave  all  to 
the  man  who  confirmed  their  belief  that  they 
were  the  greatest  people  on  earth. 

The  French  are  courageous  innovators.  The 
novelty  of  an  idea  invites  rather  than  frightens 
them.  Having  made  a  choice,  that  choice  is  right 
because  they  made  it,  and  they  support  it  to  the 
death. 

Thus  they  are  often  more  consistent  than  wise, 
as  in  the  rejection  of  the  Reformation  and  the 
acceptance  of  the  Napoleonic  legende. 

French  virtues  are  therefore  national  while 
her  vices  are  largely  individual. 

They  are  supreme  in  the  reign  of  pure  intelli- 
gence. They  worship  reason.  Thus  in  '93  all 
church  holidays  were  done  away  with.  The  God- 
dess of  Reason  was  enthroned  in  Notre  Dame. 

The  Revolution  abolished  anarchy  in  weights 
and  measures  and  established  anarchy  in  politics 
and  religion.  They  instituted  a  decimal  system 
which  lived  and  a  calendar  which  died.  They 
divided  the  year  into  twelve  months  of  thirty 
days  each  with  five  festival  days  except  in  Leap 
Year,  when  there  were  six.  The  months  had 
poetical  names  which,  freely  translated,  mean 
Vintage,  Foggy,  Hoarfrost,  Snowy,  Rainy, 
Windy,  Budding,  Flowering,  Pasture,  Harvest, 
Hot  and  Fruit.  Each  month  had  three  decades. 
There  was  a  scheme  to  decimalize  the  hours  and 


Monte  Carlo  237 


minutes  but  it  was  dropped.  Probably  if  it  had 
succeeded,  they  would  have  tackled  the  heart- 
beats. There  were  no  Sundays,  but  in  place 
thereof,  three  holidays  per  month  "for  contem- 
plation and  commemoration  of  abstract  ideas." 
Napoleon  restored  Sunday  and  in  1805  the  sen- 
ate restored  the  old  calendar  in  toto. 

It  is  the  national  characteristic  to  act  on  what 
we  could  consider  mere  theory,  providing  the 
theory  seems  to  them  true.  The  Frenchmen  dis- 
sociates the  proposition  from  the  proponent.  He 
does  not  ask  if  Voltaire  is  a  deist  or  if  Darwin  is 
in  conflict  with  Holy  Writ.  He  treats  the  prop- 
osition by  itself.  Is  it  true?  If  so,  no  matter 
where  it  leads,  he  follows. 

With  us  the  man  who  sees  quickly  frequently 
does  not  see  clearly.  He  is  agile  rather  than  ac- 
curate. He  displays  presence  of  mind  rather 
than  quick-wittedness.  He  adapts  himself 
adroitly  to  an  unforeseen  circumstance  whereas 
a  Frenchman  would  be  more  likely  to  foresee  the 
circumstance. 

The  "alert  American"  prides  himself  rather  on 
his  abiiiLy  quickly  to  correct  a  wrong  "guess" 
than  on  the  accuracy  of  his  first  estimate.  He 
is  "smart"  rather  than  intelligent. 

Brownell  (French  Traits)  quotes  an  Italian 
traveler:  "The  trouble  with  the  French  is  that 
they  can  leave  nothing  alone.     They  charge  you 


238  Three  Weeks  in  France 

more  for  potatoes  au  naturel  than  for  potatoes 
served  in  any  other  way." 

You  pay  for  the  self-control  exercised,  just  as 
Jerome  K.  Jerome  says  you  pay  for  the  things 
left  off  a  bonnet. 

We  stopped  at  none  of  the  towns  we  have 
named.  Toulon  was  sacrificed  for  the  Pont  du 
Gard  at  Remoulins.  Neither  did  the  villas  at 
Cannes  or  Nice  lure  us  from  our  advance  on 
Monte  Carlo,  although  they  looked  cool  and  in- 
viting in  the  bright  sunlight. 

The  Mediterranean  is  blue  and  green  and  much 
of  the  coast  is  of  a  Colorado  red. 

Le  Muy  has  a  tower  from  which  some  Pro- 
vencals shot  de  la  Vega,  the  poet,  whom  they  mis- 
took for  Charles  V  because  of  his  sumptuous 
dress :  a  warning  to  all  poets. 

Monte  Carlo  is  situated  in  Monaco,  the  small- 
est principality  on  the  planet  and  the  wickedest. 
It  once  was  a  world  power  containing  fifty-three 
square  miles,  but  in  1861  the  reigning  prince,  not 
caring  to  cultivate  so  much  ground,  sold  all  but 
eight  square  miles  to  France.  It  is  not  clear  why 
he  retained  so  much.  Five  acres  would  suffice 
for  the  productive  part  of  Monaco,  which  part 
is  the  percentage  in  favor  of  the  house. 

This  percentage  pays  all  the  taxes  and  in  re- 
turn for  this  immunity  the  citizens  are  not  allowed 
to  play  the  games.     No  doubt  many  expatriate 


Monte  Carlo  239 


themselves  in  order  to  return  and  sit  around  the 
tahles  in  the  Casino. 

In  much  the  same  way  Lord  Guinness,  of  Dub- 
lin, refuses  his  brewery  employes  the  right  to 
drink  beer.  Like  the  poor  but  proud  colored 
waiter  in  the  cheap  restaurant  they  can  say,  "Yes, 
suh,  ah  wuk  heah  but  ah  don'  eat  heah." 

Therefore  there  is  an  air  of  discontented  pros- 
perity among  the  soldiery  of  Monaco.  Appar- 
ently every  male  inhabitant  is  a  soldier,  fireman, 
croupier  or  bouncer. 

There  are  two  towns  in  Monaco,  Monaco 
proper  and  Monte  Carlo  which  is  not.  Alto- 
gether fifteen  thousand  people  live  in  the  prin- 
cipality. 

Just  why  Monaco  is  permitted  to  exist  is  a 
mystery.  It  is  segregated  vice  with  a  vengeance 
and  immensely  profitable.  In  fact,  it  is  so  remun- 
erative that  we  commenced  to  ask  ourselves  how 
the  rake-off  was  spilt  up  among  the  powers.  It 
is  all  within  French  territory  but  it  does  not  nec- 
essarily follow  that  France  is  the  sole  partner  in 
the  business.  It  is  too  rich  a  morsel  to  be  held 
so  long  by  one  small  house  without  a  "gentle- 
men's agreement"  of  some  sort  and  it  would  be 
interesting  to  see  the  real  books  of  Monte  Carlo. 

There  are  many  tunnels  on  the  road  to  Nice 
and  it  is  a  very  trying  trip  if  you  need  to  consult 
maps  or  time  tables.    We  went  through  Nice  and 


240  Three  Weeks  in  France 

left  our  baggage  at  the  Monte  Carlo  depot,  re- 
turning to  Nice  to  sleep.  It  is  only  a  forty  min- 
ute ride  and  our  plan  enabled  us  to  catch  an  early 
morning  train  to  our  next  stop. 

The  hotel  runners  and  cabbies  at  Monte  Carlo 
make  the  rest  of  the  world  seem  dull  and  quiet. 
Compared  to  these  gentry,  a  Coney  Island  bally- 
hoo is  coy  and  shrinking.  Apparently  they  be- 
lieve that  they  must  get  quick  action  ahead  of 
the  gaming  tables.  The  average  visitor  to  Monte 
Carlo  carries  ready  money  and  ready  money  ex- 
cites a  hotel  runner.  They  were  at  our  elbow 
during  every  operation  at  the  depot,  when  we 
alighted,  while  we  sought  a  porter,  when  we 
handed  our  tickets  to  the  gate  man,  when  we  left 
our  suit  cases  at  the  consigne.  Every  moment  a 
babel  of  hotel  names  filled  the  air,  whispered  in 
our  ears  by  the  nearest,  shouted  at  us  by  those  on 
the  edge  of  the  crowd  and  always  running 
through  it  as  a  sort  of  motif  the  words  "Anglish 
spoke." 

We  walked  two  or  three  blocks  from  the  depot, 
chartered  a  carriage  after  the  usual  bargaining 
and  drove  along  the  lower  road,  watching  the 
Mediterranean  at  play.  Like  a  huge  cat  it 
would  lie  on  its  back  and  tease  the  shore  with 
curling  breakers.  Then  it  would  dash  and  gnaw 
at  the  sandy  beach,  driven  back  repeatedly,  but 


Monte  Carlo  241 


always  returning  frothing  and  biting  its  way  into 
the  land. 

There  is  a  fine  bathing  beach  but  only  two  or 
three  children  with  their  nurses  were  availing 
themselves  of  it. 

The  Mediterranean  was  striped  with  all  the 
colors,  at  least  with  all  the  water  colors.  Gray, 
pale  green,  black,  emerald,  topaz,  navy  blue — all 
listed  as  we  saw  them  and  not  dug  out  of  a  paint 
catalogue  after  reaching  home — striped  like  a 
French  farm  or  a  gigantic  pousse  cafe. 

We  drove  about  the  town  along  climbing,  curv- 
ing streets,  between  immaculate  white  and  ivory 
villas  with  beautiful  lawns  where  the  owners 
can  gambol  on  the  green  without  leaving  their 
own  premises.  Every  part  of  the  town  is  as  clean 
as  a  hound's  tooth.  The  motto  of  Monaco  might 
well  be  "We  clean  everything  in  sight." 

The  Grand  Casino  is  right  in  front  of  the  depot 
at  the  top  of  a  long  line  of  stairs,  a  sort  of  Scala 
Maledicta,  not  to  be  ascended  on  your  knees,  but 
frequently  to  be  descended  on  your  uppers. 
There  is  an  elevator  for  the  weary.  Everything 
is  made  easy  for  the  easy.  Xo  one  needs  to  ask 
for  the  Casino  when  alighting  from  the  train. 
It  is  right  in  front  of  you. 

A  fine  orchestra  was  playing  selections  from 
ancient  classics  and  modern  Hebrew  as  we  sat 
under  the  trees  in  the  beautiful   garden.     The 


242  Three  Weeks  in  France 

usual  high  wind  was  blowing.  Ultra  fashionable 
people  strolled  by  trying  to  pass  the  time  away 
between  games.  The  Casino  is  open  from  ten  in 
the  morning  until  midnight.  A  uniformed  at- 
tendant assists  occupants  of  carriages  to  alight 
at  the  front  door.  It  is  the  policy  of  the  manage- 
ment to  relieve  you  of  everything  possible. 
Everything  is  organized  beautifully.  The  infer- 
nal regions  themselves  can  be  no  better  sys- 
tematized. If  Monaco  can  avoid  foreign  wars 
she  ought  to  continue  prosperous.  Her  army  is 
on  a  peace  footing  and  her  navy  is  tied  to  a  stake 
down  in  the  harbor.  And  all  the  time  as  the  gold 
clinks  and  the  plucked  gulls  slink  back  to  the 
depot  the  question  keeps  popping  into  my  mind : 
"How  is  the  graft  pro-rated?" 

There  were  two  sorts  of  games  going  when  we 
were  there,  five  tables  of  roulette  and  one  of 
trente-et-quarante.  The  stakes  at  the  former 
range  from  one  dollar  to  twelve  hundred  while  at 
the  latter  the  range  is  from  four  to  twenty-four 
hundred  dollars. 

The  soldiers  or  policemen  or  messenger  boys 
or  whatever  they  are  wear  white  cork  helmets, 
blue  coats  with  silver  buttons  and  white  trousers. 
They  look  like  light  opera  naval  lieutenors  the 
first  month  of  the  season. 

There  were  hundreds  of  tame  pigeons  flying 


Monte  Carlo  243 


about  the  grounds,  exempt  like  the  native  feath- 
erless  bipeds  from  being  plucked. 

To  get  into  the  Casino,  you  first  present  your 
visiting  card  at  the  office  and  receive  a  ticket 
admitting  you  for  the  day.  You  are  required  to 
give  your  nationality  and  the  name  of  your 
hotel.  Then  you  check  your  hat  so  as  to  leave 
both  hands  free  to  pull  in  your  winnings  and  enter 
the  palatial  rooms. 

"Palatial''  is  an  over-worked  word  but  a  weak 
one.  We  saw  no  palaces  in  France  that  com- 
pared with  the  Casino  in  modern  conveniences 
and  comfort. 

When  we  entered,  all  of  the  six  tables  were 
crowded  and  a  fringe  of  retail  gamblers  stood 
back  of  the  chairs.  Evidently  "the  season"  at 
Monte  Carlo  is  like  the  rainy  season  in  Ireland 
where  a  native  assured  us  "it  begins  to  rain  about 
the  first  of  June  and  is  purty  well  over  by  the 
thirty-first  of  the  following  May."  But  in  the 
winter,  we  were  told  there  were  five  rooms  open 
and  twenty-five  tables  in  full  swing. 

There  were  young  men  and  old,  richly  dressed 
and  shabby  women,  people  of  all  nations,  ath- 
letes, cripples  and  invalids.  They  had  one  thing 
in  common — an  exhausted,  depleted  expression. 
There  is  no  gayety,  no  joy,  in  Monte  Carlo.  The 
faces  are  stamped  with  the  strain  of  one  obses- 
sing appetite,  the  passion  for  gambling. 


244  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  did  not  even  know  the  rules  of  the  games 
and  learned  little  by  watching  the  players.  We 
asked  a  young  Englishman  to  explain  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  roulette  "lay-out."  He  told  us 
the  varying  odds.  I  mention  this  to  show  how 
ignorant  we  were  and  how  innocent  of  any  pre- 
conceived "system." 

I  changed  some  gold  and  separated  six  five- 
franc  pieces — about  the  size  of  silver  dollars — 
from  the  rest  of  my  money  and  agreed  to  limit 
my  plunge  to  six  bets,  win  or  lose.  The  bets  cen- 
tered around  number  16.  The  first  wager  was 
intended  to  cover  the  combination  16-17-18,  the 
odds  eleven  to  one.  The  coin  lit  on  Number  16 
and  before  I  could  make  my  intention  clear 
"Rien  ne  va  plus"  was  called  and  the  money  re- 
mained on  16.  Number  17  won  and  I  lost.  Had 
the  money  landed  where  it  was  aimed,  I  would 
have  won  eleven  dollars. 

This  is  much  more  fascinating  in  the  doing 
than  in  the  telling,  so  I  will  hasten  to  add  that 
three  more  bets  were  lost.  Then  I  tossed  a  dol- 
lar toward  the  16  square.  Again  I  was  misun- 
derstood and  the  money  rested  on  the  intersec- 
tion of  16,  17,  19  and  20.  Nineteen  won  and  I 
was  handed  eight  dollars  that  I  did  not  intend 
to  win.  This  made  a  three  dollar  winning,  net, 
and  I  recklessly  played  the  final  wager  on  16. 
The  little  ivory  ball  spun  around  and  around, 


Monte  Carlo  245 


slipped  onto  the  inner  disk,  hesitated  and  fell  into 
16.  Money,  the  equivalent  of  thirty-five  dollars, 
was  pushed  over  to  me  and  I  quit.  That  is  the 
only  part  of  the  system  that  I  can  recommend 
unreservedly. 

We  wandered  out  into  the  garden  and  bought 
some  post  cards  of  an  old  woman  whose  booth 
was  back  of  the  Casino. 

"Do  you  play?"  we  asked  her. 

"It  is  not  permitted  to  me,"  she  said  with  a 
sigh. 

We  planned  to  ride  on  the  funicular  railway 
to  La  Turbie,  a  village  at  the  top  of  the  hill, 
sixteen  hundred  feet  above  the  town.  The  view 
from  there  is  superb  and  they  serve  you  a  good 
meal,  out  of  the  tempter's  reach.  We  bought 
tickets  and  climbed  into  the  car  but  a  rain  storm 
came  up  and  we  were  satisfied  that  the  view 
would  be  obscured  so  we  returned  to  a  cafe  near 
the  Casino  for  dinner. 

In  the  evening  we  again  went  into  the  gam- 
bling rooms.  It  looked  very  much  as  it  did  in  the 
afternoon.  The  personnel  had  changed  but  not 
the  general  facial  appearance.  It  was  as  if  a 
slightly  different  group  of  people  had  stepped  in 
behind  the  same  expressions. 

There  is  a  lot  of  good  sculpture  wasted  on 
the  ceilings  of  the  gambling  rooms,  for  very  few 
people  look  up. 

Almost  every  player  has  a  system  elaborately 


246  Three  Weeks  in  France 

worked  out.  The  superstition  that  a  system  ex- 
ists that  can  break  the  bank  is  the  bulwark  of 
Monte  Carlo's  success.  These  system  players 
have  pencil  and  paper  in  front  of  them  and 
record  every  winning  number.  When  the  psy- 
chological moment  arrives  they  place  their  bets 
and  if  they  win,  the  system  is  vindicated — tem- 
porarily. If  they  lose,  there  must  have  been 
an  error  in  the  calculations.  The  system  cannot 
be  mistaken. 

One- fourth  of  the  players  were  women.  At 
intervals  in  the  evening  attendants  passed  wine 
around  free  of  charge  to  all  in  the  rooms, 
whether  players  or  not. 

About  nine  o'clock,  the  orchestra  started  to 
play.  We  sat  around  and  listened  to  the  music 
and  studied  the  faces  about  us  until  it  was  time 
to  take  the  train  to  Nice. 

At  the  depot,  we  were  joined  by  others  who 
found  it  desirable  to  sleep  at  Nice.  One  moth- 
erly looking  lady  of  sixty  passed  us  as  we  sat 
and  she  was  in  an  unusual  predicament  for  a 
lady  of  sixty.  She  had  a  bundle  in  one  hand,  an 
umbrella  and  newspaper  in  the  other  and  an  un- 
lighted  cigarette  in  her  mouth.  She  succeeded 
in  striking  a  match  on  the  box  and  walked  on 
puffing  in  a  very  determined  manner. 

I  am  glad  I  do  not  smoke  cigarettes.  It  is  too 
effeminate. 


The  Goulets  247 


XVII 

The  Goulets 


mALF  of  Nice  goes  out  of  business  in  the 
summer  time.  More  than  half  of  the 
I     hotels  and  pensions  are  closed.     That 

fact  does  not  alter  the  clean  loveliness 
of  its  pink  and  creamy  villas  as  they  circle  the 
terraces  above  the  bay,  like  strands  of  corals  and 
pearls. 

At  Cannes  the  train  stood  for  ten  minutes  be- 
side a  trainload  of  long-horned,  fawn-colored 
cattle  voicing  their  criticism  of  the  railroad  man- 
agement and  their  displeasure  at  being  trans- 
ferred from  Cannes  to  cans. 

A  good  deal  of  France  was  storm-swept  the 
day  we  were  at  Monte  Carlo.  We  had  a  high, 
cold  wind  which  we  were  assured  was  unpre- 
cedented but  we  are  so  used  to  breaking  meteoro- 
logical records  that  we  paid  no  attention  to  it. 
The  cold  wave  lasted  long  enough  to  get  us  out 
of  the  southern  part  of  France  and  we  were 
grateful  for  that. 


248  Three  Weeks  in  France 

At  Marseilles  we  stopped  for  twenty-five  min- 
utes but  that  was  not  enough  time  for  us  to  eat 
lunch  so  we  bought  a  box  lunch  and  ate  it  on 
the  train. 

Our  compartment  had  seven  of  its  eight  places 
taken  and  every  one  had  a  box  lunch.  Besides 
ourselves  there  were  three  ladies,  a  child  and  a 
young  colored  man  who  spoke  French  fluently 
and  English  imperfectly.  The  two  ladies  took 
up  every  inch  of  room  in  the  racks  with  their 
packages  and  we  were  obliged  to  find  storage 
under  the  seats  for  our  baggage. 

We  again  passed  through  Tarascon  but  this 
time  we  did  not  change  cars.  We  were  crowded 
worse  after  picking  up  the  Paris  passengers  at 
Tarascon.  All  places  were  taken  and  the  corri- 
dors were  full.  More  passengers  were  admitted 
than  there  were  places,  thus  rudely  shattering 
another  tradition  of  the  Continent.  Luckily 
French  trains  are  never  in  a  hurry  to  start  and 
eventually  every  one  was  placed,  some  gentle- 
men surrendering  their  seats  and  standing  in  the 
corridor. 

We  looked  out  the  car  windows  at  Avignon, 
the  capital  of  the  Roman  hierarchy  and  resi- 
dence of  the  popes  in  the  fourteenth  century. 
The  ancient  palace  of  the  popes  is  its  star  at- 
traction. Here  is  the  headquarters  of  the 
Brotherhood   founded  by  Frederic  Mistral,  the 


The  Goulets  249 


poet,  whose  purpose  it  was  to  revive  the  Pro- 
vencal language  and  literature.  And  as  we 
mused  over  the  labor  this  good  man  had  ex- 
pended from  pure  love  of  country,  we  bought  the 
morning  paper  and  read  that  Frederic  Mistral 
was  dying.  A  few  days  later  he  passed  away 
at  the  good  old  age  of  eighty-two. 

Every  depot  was  thronged  with  people  and  we 
were  puzzled  at  first  but  later  recalled  that  it 
was  Sunday.  The  practice  of  seeing  the  Sunday 
train  pass  through  is  not  limited  to  rural  com- 
munities in  the  United  States. 

The  town  of  Orange  interested  us  because 
it  gave  the  name  to  the  house  of  William  the 
Silent,  and  was  subject  thereto  until  the  Peace 
of  Utrecht  in  171 3  gave  it  and  its  small  territory 
to  France,  leaving  only  the  title,  Prince  of 
Orange,  to  the  house  of  Nassau. 

We  arrived  at  Valence  late  and  made  a  quick 
change  to  the  train  for  Romans.  A  porter  ran 
into  the  depot  and  bought  tickets  for  us.  If  you 
try  to  pass  through  an  exit  at  a  French  depot 
without  a  ticket  you  are  required  to  pay  first- 
class  fare  from  the  terminal  of  the  line.  If  you 
ride  in  a  higher  class  than  your  ticket  calls  for, 
you  are  assessed  the  difference,  if  you  are  de- 
tected in  it,  providing  there  is  a  vacant  place  in 
the  class  in  which  you  belong.     A  great  many 


250  Three  Weeks  in  France 

people  ride  out  of  their  class  and  are  never  found 
out. 

At  Romans  we  changed  to  a  tram  for  Pont- 
en-Royans.  There  were  only  six  first-class 
places,  all  taken,  so  we  sat  in  the  unupholstered 
second-class  end  of  the  car.  The  ride  was  a 
rough  one  and  it  lasted  two  and  a  half  hours. 

The  rural  towns  through  which  we  passed 
seemed  given  over  to  street  bowling  as  a  Sunday 
recreation. 

Our  little  train  of  one  car  went  up  over  a  ridge 
and  down  into  a  green  valley  with  here  and 
there  a  village.  Some  towns  were  of  a  consid- 
erable size  and  all  were  in  their  Sunday  garments 
and  well  represented  at  the  depots. 

St.  Jean-en-Royans  is  a  busy  looking  place 
whose  only  communication  with  the  outside 
world  is  by  this  little  tramway. 

It  was  twenty  minutes  after  eight  when  we  ar- 
rived at  Pont-en-Royans  and  the  moon  was  shin- 
ing brightly.  The  lights  of  the  town  were  visible 
and  they  were  a  mile  from  the  depot.  There 
was  no  carriage  in  sight  and  no  hotel  porter. 
Evidently  the  eight  twenty  train  from  Romans 
was  not  a  popular  one.  A  little  four  and  a  half 
foot  man  with  a  breath  that  would  have  done 
credit  to  a  six  foot  grenadier  volunteered  to 
carry  our  suit  cases.  I  lugged  the  carry-all  and 
B.  led  the  march  with  the  camera.     We  made 


'  i 


TTXXEL    IX    THK    GRAXDS    COI'LIOTS 


The  Goulets  251 

several  pauses  to  rest  the  little  man,  who  was 
growing  visibly  shorter  under  the  weight  of  the 
luggage  until  we  feared  his  shoe  strings  would 
get  into  his  eyes.  After  twenty  minutes  our 
rapidly  vanishing  porter  commandeered  a  push 
cart  from  a  neighboring  yard  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  way  we  took  things  easy. 

We  had  had  nothing  but  a  box  lunch  since  our 
early  breakfast  and  it  was  nine  o'clock  when  we 
sat  down  to  a  good  country  dinner. 

Pont-en-Royans  looks  like  a  hornet's  nest  plas- 
tered against  the  cliff.  The  Hotel  Bonnard 
marked  "unpretentious"  by  Baedeker  is  better 
than  some  marked  "good,"  except  that  it  should 
send  a  carriage  to  the  evening  tram. 

We  woke  up  after  a  comfortable  night  and 
found  a  clear  cool  day  just  taking  down  its  shut- 
ters and  getting  ready  for  business.  You  can 
take  a  diligence  and  see  the  Goulets  at  less  ex- 
pense but  the  exigencies  of  kodakery  demand  spe- 
cial favors  in  the  way  of  stops  so  we  ordered  a 
carriage  for  the  day.  This,  with  two  horses  and 
bells  galore,  cost  us  four  dollars. 

We  drove  up  and  up  and  up  over  a  winding 
road  protected  by  walls  at  the  turns  only,  past  a 
few  tandem  truck  teams  hauling  big  logs  or  tele- 
graph poles  into  the  town.  There  is  not  much 
grain  hereabouts.  It  is  a  grass  country.  Later 
we  could  look  down  at  our  road  zig-zagging  for 


252  Three  Weeks  in  France 

miles  below  us  where  the  landscape  was  like  a 
map  drawn  in  many  colors  of  green,  while  above 
us  towered  seamed  and  riven  rocks. 

We  passed  through  five  tunnels  into  the  Petits 
Goulets  and  rode  through  it  for  an  hour  or  more 
before  we  reached  the  Grands  Goulets.  Then 
came  grander  sights.  We  passed  through 
a  chalky  tunnel  under  white,  overhanging  rocks 
into  another  and  shorter  tunnel.  The  air  was 
very  cold  in  the  shade  but  the  sun  was  quite 
warm.  A  rain  coat  felt  comfortable  on  the  ride. 
Our  progress  was  by  short  stages  with  many 
stops  for  photographs  and  many  tunnels.  The 
name  "goulet"  means  the  neck  of  a  bottle  and 
is  applied  to  the  narrow  entrance  to  a  harbor. 
It  fits  this  cul-de-sac  admirably. 

There  are  miles  of  tilted  strata  where  one  gets 
a  faint  conception  of  forces  once  at  work  and 
now  not  dead  but  sleeping,  that  make  the  labors 
of  man  seem  very  puny.  Whole  mountains  are 
tilted  like  fallen  layer  cake  cooled  too  suddenly. 
The  fine  road  over  which  we  drove  is  merely 
nibbled  from  the  rind.  Here  and  there  a  grand 
cascade  roars  down  for  a  great  distance.  The 
tunnels  become  almost  continuous. 

We  emerged  into  a  green  valley  with  farms 
or  pastures  wherever  there  are  fifty  feet  square 
of  level  ground.     There  were  little  caves  and  a 


The  Goulets  253 


tiny  brook  so  clear  that  it  magnified  the  pebbles 
at  the  bottom. 

The  Valley  of  St.  Martin  leads  to  the  little 
town  of  St.  Martin  where  we  ate  luncheon.  A 
funeral  service  was  being  held  in  the  tiny  old 
church.  The  town  was  filled  with  farmers. 
They  had  gathered  to  honor  the  memory  of  a 
neighbor,  a  good  man  and  a  popular  one.  Two 
or  three  hundred  people  streamed  out  of  the  lit- 
tle church  and  into  the  graveyard  behind  it  in 
the  wake  of  a  coffin  borne  on  the  shoulders  of 
half  a  dozen  men.  Six  mourning  children 
showed  how  much  the  father  would  be  missed. 

The  cortege  returned,  some  to  the  hotel  but 
most  of  them  to  the  village  pump,  where  they 
loitered  awhile  and  talked  of  the  virtues  of  the 
deceased  in  subdued  voices.  The  priest  removed 
his  robes  of  office  and  mixed  with  his  parish- 
ioners. It  was  evident  that  the  Republic  of 
France  when  it  put  up  that  label  on  the  church 
"R.  F.  1910"  took  over  nothing  but  the  building. 

A  touring  party  in  an  automobile  honked 
through  the  crowd,  intending  no  irreverence  but 
grotesquely  out  of  the  picture. 

It  was  too  cool  to  eat  in  the  garden  so  we 
adjourned  to  the  second  floor  dining  room,  made 
splendid  by  a  chandelier  wrapped  in  tin  foil. 

The  regular  boarders  took  their  places  at  the 
large  table  and  proceeded  to  discuss  the  funeral. 


254  Three  Weeks  in  France 

The  man  who  dies  in  these  rural  communities  is 
a  public  benefactor. 

Two  dogs  entered  undeterred  and  trotted  di- 
rectly to  us.  Even  a  French  dog  detects  our 
accent  and  attempts  to  work  us.  It  is  but  just 
to  add  that  all  of  the  boarders  handed  occasional 
bits  to  the  dogs.  Napkins  were  unblushingly 
placed  under  chins. 

The  claims  of  equal  rights  for  the  sexes  are  al- 
lowed in  France  except  at  the  polling  booth.  The 
fair  sex  is  supplanting  the  unfair  sex  in  every 
line  of  endeavor.  You  frequently  see  cows 
yoked  up  and  hauling  wagons,  depriving  honest 
oxen  of  their  legitimate  means  of  livelihood. 

The  return  ride  was  unexciting.  There  was 
an  hour  of  steady  upgrade,  not  very  steep  but 
affording  an  excuse  for  walking  the  horses.  The 
ride  could  be  made  in  half  the  time  without 
hurting  the  team,  but  that  would  make  it  too  brief 
for  the  amount  charged. 

The  drive  through  the  lovely  valley  of  the 
Bourne  was  delightful.  The  road  was  good  and 
the  views  were  grand,  but  not  so  impressive  as 
those  in  the  Gorge  of  the  Tarn  or  on  the  way 
to  Gavarnie. 

Our  departure  from  Pont-en-Royans  was 
more  impressive  than  our  entrance.  We  drove 
down  its  clean,  narrow  street,  responding  to  the 
salutations  -of  its  neat-looking  citizens  and  with 


['(  iXT-KX-R(  IYAXI 


The  Goulets  255 


prancing  steeds  and  cracking  whip,  wound  up  and 
around  the  hill  to  the  depot. 

There  is  a  large  tunnel  in  the  mountains  on 
one  side  of  the  Bourne,  tapping  the  source  of  the 
Vercors  and  supplying  electric  power.  This 
proud,  champing  little  stream  is  pointed  into 
large  tubes  and  becomes  simply  a  gigantic  hose. 
The  holes  made  in  the  mountain  side  to  permit 
the  discharge  of  debris  from  the  tunnel  look  very 
peculiar  from  the  drive-way  for  there  is  nothing 
leading  to  them  except  a  very  tenuous  plank 
walk  from  the  adjacent  holes.  Until  the  mystery 
is  solved  and  you  learn  the  inside  facts,  you 
wonder  how  men  ever  reached  the  holes. 

We  chose  first-class  accommodations  on  our 
return  to  Romans,  largely  because  of  the  cush- 
ions. At  St.  Nazaire  we  loaded  three  empty 
casks  which  acted  as  if  they  were  full,  rolling 
into  the  cars,  upsetting  men  and  delaying  our 
departure  considerably.  Below  St.  Nazaire  we 
had  our  first  view  in  France  of  a  steam  thresher 
at  work. 

When  we  reached  Romans  the  tram  first 
backed  into  a  freight  yard  and  transferred  its 
more  perishable  burden,  a  work  of  a  little  more 
than  ten  minutes,  after  which  we  were  taken  to 
the  depot. 

We  piled  our  baggage  in  the  middle  of  the 
street  and  I  stood  guard  while  B.  searched  for 


256  Three  Weeks  in  France 

a  hotel  porter.  There  were  neither  porters  nor 
carriages  at  the  station,  so  she  went  to  a  near-by 
hotel  and  presently  a  waiter  emerged  and  assisted 
us  with  our  baggage  to  the  neat  but  unpretentious 
hotel  where  we  found  a  good  room.  We  thought 
this  preferable  to  hunting  for  a  starred  hotel  in 
a  remote  part  of  the  town. 

Carriages  meet  the  regular  trains  but  we  came 
from  Pont-en-Royans  on  a  tram  between  train- 
times. 

In  Romans  we  spent  the  quietest  morning  of 
our  trip,  largely  because  the  real  town  is  a  mile 
from  the  depot.  At  eight  o'clock  only  a  few 
shops  in  our  neighborhood  were  open,  although 
there  are  more  than  seventeen  thousand  people 
here.  We  slept  better,  surrounded  by  the  noises 
of  tram  and  railway  than  we  did  in  some  villages 
so  quiet  that  when  a  citizen  a  block  away  turned 
over  in  bed  we  both  sat  up  and  asked,  "What 
was  that?" 

The  Touvard  is  a  comfortable  hotel,  and  if 
ever  you  are  stranded  overnight  in  Romans  you 
will  be  well  taken  care  of  there  at  a  very  slight 
expense. 

The  usual  statue  is  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 
This  one  is  to  the  soldiers  of  the  Dauphine  at  the 
time  of  the  Revolution.  President  Carnot  laid 
the  cornerstone  in  i< 


Chambery  257 


XVIII 

Chambery 


0URAL  France  does  not  seem  to  have 
grappled  with  the  fly  problem  at  all. 
"Frappez  la  mouche"  has  not  yet  be- 
come a  slogan.  There  are  no  screens 
and  not  much  sticky  fly  paper.  Here  and  there 
are  narrow  strips  of  gummed  paper  on  which 
only  a  skilled  fly-aviator  could  make  a  landing. 
You  fight  for  your  food  inch  by  inch.  The 
journals  see  only  the  humorous  phase  of  the 
subject  and  publish  cartoons  regarding  the 
pests.  A  favorite  toy  represents  a  baby's  face 
with  a  fly  on  its  nose.  "The  Fly"  was  one  of 
the  prize  pictures  in  the  Salon  of  19 12.  The 
French  need  some  good  American  Board  of 
Health  secretary  to  give  them  a  scare.  Evi- 
dently they  do  not  dream  of  their  peril. 

A  Society  for  the  Protection  of  the  Young 
Girl  had  women  agents  with  badges  on  their 
sleeves  at  many  metropolitan  depots  visited  by 
us.  At  Rouen  B.  was  ten  feet  ahead  of  me  and 
was  almost  protected  without  her  knowledge  or 


258  Three  Weeks  in  France 

my  consent.  I  rescued  her  from  her  rescuer  who 
to  this  day  has  her  suspicions  of  me,  I  have  no 
doubt. 

Rural  mail  bags  are  small  and  made  of  flimsy 
material.  They  look  like  laundry  bags  that  have 
grown  suspicious  and  put  on  locks. 

We  found  an  unoccupied  second-class  com- 
partment to  Chambery  and  were  happy.  We 
repeat  and  affirm  that  third-class  compartments 
in  France  are  unspeakable.  Half  dressed  sol- 
diers and  unwashed  citizens  spread  themselves 
over  uncushioned  benches  or  ooze  out  of  car  win- 
dows. Some  one  is  eating,  drinking  or  smoking 
all  the  time. 

St.  Marcellin  on  our  left  gives  a  glimpse  of  its 
thirteenth  century  tower  from  the  railroad  and 
its  clean  looking  city  pinned  against  the  hillside. 
Dauphiny  is  a  mixture  of  vines,  farms  and 
orchards. 

Voreppe  is  a  cement  town  with  a  huge  moun- 
tain back  of  it  waiting  to  be  chiseled  down, 
ground  up  and  laid  low  in  pavements  to  be  trod- 
den underfoot  of  men.  Beyond  these  high 
mountains  lies  Italy. 

We  stopped  for  twenty  minutes  at  Grenoble, 
a  busy  city,  the  first  one  of  any  importance  to 
open  its  gates  to  Napoleon  on  his  return  from 
Elba  in  181 5.  It  is  a  favorite  summer  resort 
as  well  as  a  center  of  the  cement  industry. 


Chambery  259 

At  Brignoud  a  lovely  cascade  leaps  down  the 
mountain  side  on  the  right.  Then  come  snow- 
clad  mountains  on  the  left,  after  which  more 
timid  ranges  hide  their  tops  in  clouds. 

Almost  every  town  in  this  region  has  a  statue 
of  Bayard,  le  Chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans  re- 
proche.  His  birthplace,  the  Chateau  Bayard  is 
just  beyond  Le  Cheylas-la-Buissiere  on  the  right. 
This  is  likewise  the  birthplace  of  Chartreuse,  the 
famous  cordial  of  the  Carthusians,  also  sans 
reproche.  Since  1903  it  has  been  manufac- 
tured in  Italy.  In  spite  of  persecution  and  expul- 
sion these  old  fathers  still  keep  the  best  of  spirits. 

At  Chambery  we  left  our  luggage  at  the  de- 
pot and  took  carriage  for  Les  Charmettes,  the 
home  of  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau  and  Madame  de 
Warens  from  1736  to  1741. 

Francis  Gribble  says  in  "Rousseau  and  the 
Women  Whom  He  Loved"  that  he  has  seen  the 
lease  and  it  commenced  in  1738.  Rousseau  in 
his  "Confessions"  says  1736.  Rousseau's  gen- 
eral reputation  for  truth  and  mendacity  would 
lead  us  to  accept  Gribble  even  without  the  lease. 

Rousseau  was  born  in  Geneva  in  171 2,  grand- 
son of  a  preacher  and  son  of  a  clockmaker.  He 
was  a  political  combination  of  preacher  and 
tinker,  a  man  of  genius  in  contrast  to  the  tal- 
ented encyclopedists.  He  was  one  of  the  for- 
eigners who  have   greatly  affected  French  his- 


260  Three  Weeks  in  France 

tory.  He  was  sincere  in  his  philosophy  but  un- 
reliable in  his  facts.  He  would  cheerfully  lie 
to  support  a  truth  in  which  he  believed.  He 
studied  Rousseau  and  founded  his  philosophy  on 
an  introspective  self-analysis.  He  was  a  queer 
mixture  of  Swiss  works  in  a  French  case.  He 
was  a  theist.  He  had  to  believe  in  God  to  ac- 
count for  Rousseau.  Who  but  God  could  have 
created  Rousseau? 

He  was  not  orthodox  nor  bigoted.  He  was 
Calvinist  or  Catholic  as  he  found  it  convenient, 
but  never  an  atheist.  He  was  a  preacher  of  the 
simple  life,  a  lover  of  nature.  He  would  have 
been  for  the  initiative,  referendum  and  recall. 
He  believed  that  the  people  were  to  be  trusted 
until  you  trusted  them  with  something:  then  re- 
call them.  He  believed  in  pure  democracy,  in 
popular  assemblages.  He  thought  that  a  people 
which  delegated  its  legislation  was  as  unpatriotic 
as  one  which  employed  mercenaries  in  war.  To 
him  the  ideal  life  would  have  been  a  perpetual 
corner  grocery  with  everyone  advising  and  no 
one  permitted  to  execute,  with  a  central  stove 
and  equal  rights  to  expectorate  but  with  no  one 
allowed  to  stir  up  the  fire. 

We  drove  out  on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Colonne 
past  the  famous  and  unique  Elephant  Fountain, 
with  a  statue  of  General  de  Boigne,  who  ac- 
quired a  large  fortune  in  India  and  bequeathed  it 


I.KS    CilAKMKTTIOS     -CHAMHKRY 


Chambery  261 

to  the  several  benevolent  institutions  of  his  native 
town.    He  died  in  1830. 

Our  road  goes  up,  up,  up  a  narrow  and  wind- 
ing way.  The  driver  climbed  down  and  walked 
for  half  a  mile.  Then  he  signified  that  he  would 
go  no  farther.  We  remonstrated.  We  were 
over  two  hundred  yards  from  Les  Charmettes 
and  the  road  was  still  ascending.  We  had  been 
so  frequently  cajoled  or  bluffed  into  walking 
when  we  had  paid  for  riding  that  we  resolved  to 
fight  it  out  right  there.  The  driver  said  that  he 
could  not  turn  his  vehicle  farther  up  the  hill.  I 
promised  to  help  him  take  it  apart  and  put  it 
together  again  if  necessary.  Finally  we  com- 
promised by  permitting  B.  to  stay  in  the  carriage 
while  he  led  the  horse  and  I  walked  beside  him. 
We  found  a  wider  turning  space  in  front  of  Les 
Charmettes  than  the  one  we  had  left.  We  said 
"Aha!"  and  pointed  to  it.  He  said,  "But  yes, 
m'sieti,  it  is  for  automobiles." 

Within  the  house  everything  is  interesting. 
We  were  in  the  birthplace  of  a  good  deal  of  the 
Declaration  of  Independence.  We  were  shown 
through  the  reception  hall,  dining  room  and  par- 
lor on  the  ground  floor. 

There  is  a  door  painted  on  the  wall  of  the 
dining  room  leading  to  nothing  but  embarrass- 
ment if  you  try  to  take  hold  of  the  handle.    This 


262  Three  Weeks  in  France 

is  another  instance  of  the  practice  of  painting  in 
the  necessary  ventilation. 

Upstairs  we  were  admitted  to  the  bedrooms 
of  Rousseau  and  of  his  benefactress  Mme.  de 
Warens.  At  this  time  Rousseau  was  a  Catholic. 
Mme.  de  Warens'  bedroom  was  filled  with  re- 
ligious pictures,  including  one  of  the  Magdalen. 
Outside  her  door  was  a  small  chapel.  It  is  evi- 
dent that  here  Rousseau  was  in  a  severely  re- 
ligious atmosphere  so  far  as  externals  were  con- 
cerned. Religious  pictures  and  a  crucifix  depend 
from  the  walls  in  his  bedroom.  His  servant's 
bunk  is  let  into  the  wall  above  Rousseau's  bed. 

There  are  holes  at  the  bottom  of  all  the  doors 
for  the  ingress  and  egress  of  the  family  cat. 
The  steps  leading  to  the  upper  floor  are  of  stone, 
the  floors  are  of  wood. 

Outside  in  opposite  corners  of  the  front  yard 
two  artists  were  making  sketches  of  the  house. 

There  is  a  beautiful  view  of  the  mountains 
from  the  east  windows  and  not  far  away  is  Switz- 
erland, the  land  of  his  birth  and  a  frequent 
refuge  in  time  of  trouble. 

Rousseau's  life  was  just  one  refuge  after  an- 
other. He  had  a  wonderful  power  over  women 
and  priests. 

A  too  close  study  of  the  life  at  Les  Charmettes, 
which  was  shared  by  other  admirers  of  Mme.  de 
Warens,  rather  shatters  the  romance.     Perhaps 


Chambery  263 

we  had  better  leave  details  to  Rousseau's  biog- 
raphers with  the  feeling  that  any  reader  of  his 
biography  will  be  less  easily  perturbed  than  one 
who  peruses  a  travel  book. 

The  lady  artist  in  the  front  yard  folded  up 
her  easel  and  walked  over  to  where  the  man  was 
sketching  and  knelt  at  his  side.  Husband  and 
wife  perhaps  or  maybe  kindred  souls  affected  by 
the  environment.  The  old  hall  clock  of  Rous- 
seau struck  three,  a  reminder  that  three  are  a 
crowd.  We  said  farewell  to  Les  Charmettes, 
the  dream  spot,  and  returned  to  our  dusty  world. 

We  drove  down  the  rue  de  Boigne  with  a  few 
arcades  and  past  the  statue  to  Joseph  and  Xavier 
de  Maistre.  Then  we  loafed  through  the  park 
and  watched  some  soldiers  at  target  practice. 
We  photographed  what  is  standing  of  the 
Chateau  and  also  the  old  carved  wooden  doors 
of  the  cathedral. 

Chambery  is  a  good  town  and  has  covered 
sewers  and  makes  a  feint  at  sprinkling  its  streets. 


264  Annecy 


XIX 

Annecy 


0T  the  Chambery  railway  station  a  "com- 
missionaire" took  possession  of  our  suit 
I     cases  and  placed  them  on  a  truck  which 

he  pushed  half  the  length  of  the  depot 
and  turned  us  over  to  another  porter.  The  first 
man  scoffed  at  the  tip  given  him.  It  was  not 
large  but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  owed  us  a  little 
for  delaying  our  progress  in  order  to  share  us 
with  another  porter. 

We  made  a  long  stop  at  Aix-les-Bains,  a  fash- 
ionable and  expensive  watering  place.  It  has 
warm  sulphur  springs  which  were  known  and 
used  by  the  Romans,  those  indefatigable  bathers. 
The  climate  is  delightful  and  the  water  when 
coupled  with  regular  hours  and  a  restricted  diet 
has  been  known  to  do  wonders  for  invalids.  The 
treatment  is  especially  efficacious  for  rheumatism 
and  skin  diseases.  Drinking  fountains  supply 
the  water  gratis  to  the  public. 

We  jested  merrily  at  the  long  stop  we  made 


Annecy  265 

at  Aix-les-Bains.  I  even  went  so  far  as  to 
suggest  that  we  were  being  given  time  to  take 
a  bath.  Occasionally  a  train  guard  or  a  station 
employe  would  shout  something  in  our  window 
which  we  could  not  understand.  We  approved 
the  voices  but  criticised  the  phrasing.  Altogether 
we  had  a  jolly  time  at  Aix-les-Bains  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  natives. 

At  Culoz  we  found  that  the  long  stop  had  been 
to  enable  us  to  change  cars  for  Annecy  and  that 
those  poor,  overworked  railroad  employes  had 
been  begging,  urging  and  ordering  all  passengers 
for  Annecy  to  get  aboard  a  train  on  another 
track. 

We  rode  back  to  Aix-les-Bains,  madder  but 
wiser,  and  were  charged  nothing  for  our  stu- 
pidity. Our  return  ride  gave  us  another  oppor- 
tunity to  study  placid  Lac  du  Bourget  which  is 
eleven  miles  long  and  almost  five  hundred  feet 
deep.  It  is  a  beautiful  blue  in  color  and  as 
smooth  as  a  mirror. 

Our  mistake  caused  us  to  be  an  hour  and  a 
half  late  into  Annecy,  but  we  were  amply  com- 
pensated by  having  as  traveling  companions  be- 
tween Aix-les-Bains  and  Annecy  a  typical  wine 
grower  and  his  wife. 

Picture  to  yourself  a  woman  with  hands  and 
face  burned  brown  by  the  sun,  in  a  blue  silk 
dress  of  the  best  material,  from  the  bottom  of 


266  Three  Weeks  in  France 

which  projected  a  pair  of  substantial  feet  encased 
in  low  shoes.  A  timid  glance  showed  above  the 
shoe  tops  blue  stockings  matching  the  dress.  She 
had  four  rings  on  one  hand  and  five  on  the  other, 
one  being  a  quintuply  entwined  snake  extending 
from  knuckle  to  knuckle.  Any  of  her  rings  must 
have  cost  more  than  six  manicure  sets  and  she 
needed  at  least  six.  Her  finger  nails  were  long 
and  in  mourning.  Her  hair  was  frizzed  in  the 
highest  form  of  the  art.  She  gave  every  evi- 
dence of  being  the  owner  of  easy  money  coupled 
with  ignorance  of  what  to  do  with  it.  She  had 
a  bracelet  on  each  arm  and  a  neck  chain  yards 
long.  She  had  so  many  breast  pins  and  brooches 
that  when  she  sneezed  she  rattled.  Part  of  her 
equipment  was  gold,  part  of  it  was  gilt.  That  any 
of  it  was  gold  shows  that  human  nature  is  not 
utterly  bad,  for  she  doubtless  had  as  little  dis- 
crimination between  things  that  glistened  as  a 
Fiji  bride.  Topping  it  all  she  carried  furs  on 
this  warm  July  day. 

The  male  member  of  the  party  wore  a  cellu- 
loid collar,  a  dark  blue  serge  suit,  no  jewelry, 
boots  that  had  never  been  polished  and  an  air  of 
uneasy  suspicion.  He  was  dimly  conscious  that 
the  beautiful  being  by  his  side  offered  too  strong 
a  lure  for  our  frail  sex  to  withstand,  and  he 
kept  his  eye  on  her  all  the  time. 

Annecy  is  very  much  like  a  Holland  town.     It 


AX  ARCADKU  STREET— ANXECY 


Annecy  267 

has  only  been  French  since  i860.  It  formerly 
was  a  part  of  Sardinia.  We  walked  out  in  the 
evening  and  staked  out  several  claims  for  the 
next  day's  snapshotting.  There  are  blocks  of 
arcades  in  addition  to  the  pretty  canals,  and  all  of 
these  things  add  to  the  quaintness  and  attractive- 
ness of  the  town.  But  it  was  so  cold  that  we  con- 
cluded not  to  stay  a  second  night  in  Annecy,  but 
to  hasten  to  Chamonix,  cutting  out  the  lovely 
steamboat  ride  on  Lake  Annecy. 

In  the  morning  we  drove  out  into  the  old  town 
with  its  narrow  streets,  arcades  and  canals.  A 
barber  shop  displayed  a  sign  announcing  not  only 
Marcel  waves  but  "Schampooings."  A  book 
stall  where  we  loafed  awhile  displayed  a  book 
in  French  giving  one  hundred  and  fifty  recipes 
for  American  drinks.  Nick  Carter  is  widely 
read  by  juvenile  French.  Thus  does  the  newer 
civilization  corrupt  the  older. 

We  drove  down  to  the  shores  of  the  beautiful 
lake  bounded  by  mist-clad  hills,  and  almost  re- 
scinded our  early  leaving  plans.  Two  steamers 
were  waiting  their  time  of  departure  for  a  two 
hours'  trip  around  the  lake  and  they  looked  very 
inviting. 

Southern  France  needs  a  new  Baedeker.  Cab 
fares  are  nearly  all  a  half  franc  higher  per  hour 
than  is  given  in  the  1907  edition.  This  leads  to 
argument  and  a  demand  for  "le  tarif"  invariably 


268  Three  Weeks  in  France 

vindicates  the  cabby.  In  Annecy  the  rate  is  sixty 
cents  per  hour.  The  increased  cost  of  living  in 
France  has  forced  this  advance  in  prices. 

Rousseau  was  a  chorister  in  the  cathedral  at 
Annecy  but  found  that  he  was  a  soloist  by  nature. 
We  photographed  a  group  of  washerwomen  who 
were  comparing  linen  from  the  different  hotels 
and  making  pungent  comments  on  the  owners 
of  some  of  the  garments  they  were  beating  up. 

The  old  prison  projects  into  the  canal,  increas- 
ing the  difficulty  of  escape  and  creating  an  un- 
sanitary condition.  A  prisoner  must  know  how 
to  swim  if  he  wants  to  break  jail  in  Annecy. 

We  were  involuntarily  reminded  of  the  double 
lynching  from  the  Missouri  river  bridge,  a  legend 
of  early  days.  The  first  noose  came  untied  and 
the  prisoner  fell  into  the  water,  swam  ashore  and 
escaped.  As  they  were  putting  the  rope  around 
the  other  man's  neck  he  said,  "For  heaven's 
sake,  tie  it  right,  boys.    I  can't  swim  a  lick." 

We  drove  past  the  home  of  Mme.  de  Warens 
where  Rousseau  lived  in  1729  before  entering  a 
la  Maitrise  (Number  13  of  the  same  street) 
where  he  developed  his  taste  for  music.  The 
street  is  now  called  the  rue  J.  J.  Rousseau.  Over 
the  door  of  Number  13  is  a  shrine. 

There  is  a  quaint  old  fountain  in  front  of  the 
cathedral.  There  are  lions  at  the  base  and  the 
central  column  rests  on  the  backs  of  four  tor- 


Annecy  269 

toises.  A  modern  touch  was  given  the  scene 
on  the  morning  of  our  visit  by  milliners  trim- 
ming hats  on  the  sidewalk  while  their  customers 
sat  around  and  waited  for  them. 

The  home  of  St.  Francis  de  Sales  is  on  the 
rue  du  Paquier.  His  tomb  is  now  in  a  new 
chapel  at  the  foot  of  the  mountains.  It  was  re- 
moved in  191 1  because  the  law  says  that  no  ceme- 
tery can  be  maintained  within  the  limits  of  a 
city.  We  approve  of  sanitary  legislation  but  be- 
lieve that  any  danger  from  infection  from  a  corpse 
that  became  a  corpse  in  1622  is  so  small  that  it  can 
be  risked  with  impunity. 

There  is  a  fine  bust  of  Sommellier  in  the  Pub- 
lic Garden.  He  was  one  of  the  engineers  of  the 
Mt.  Cenis  tunnel. 

We  had  a  difficult  time  finding  out  whose  monu- 
ment decorated  the  entrance  to  a  certain  beauti- 
ful avenue  named  after  the  same  man.  The 
driver  said  it  over  a  dozen  times,  growing  more 
emphatic  and  consequently  more  indistinct  at 
each  recital.  "You  Jensu"  was  the  nearest  we 
could  come  to  it  for  awhile.  Then  he  added  "A 
great  writer."  Suddenly  it  flashed  on  us.  Eu- 
gene Sue.  We  thought  of  the  young  woman  in 
the  Tennessee  mountains  who  was  "most  growed 
befo'  she  knowed  dam  Yankee  was  two  words." 

We  drove  the  length  of  Avenue  Eugene  Sue, 
beautifully  shaded,  to  where  we  had  a  good  view 


270  Three  Weeks  in  France 

of  his  chateau,  overlooking  Lake  Annecy  from 
the  foot  of  a  green  hill. 

Sue  was  one  of  a  long  and  illustrious  line  of 
physicians,  lured  from  the  scalpel  by  the  call  of 
the  pen.  After  the  death  of  his  father  left  him 
rich  he  quitted  the  army  and  the  practice  of  sur- 
gery and  devoted  his  life  to  literature.  "The 
Mysteries  of  Paris"  and  "The  Wandering  Jew" 
are  the  best  known  of  his  many  romances. 

At  the  Coup  d'etat  of  Napoleon  III  in  185 1  he 
left  France  and  came  to  the  beautiful  chateau 
on  the  banks  of  Lake  Annecy,  which  was  then 
in  Sardinia. 

Annecy  is  all  green  and  silver  with  linden  trees 
and  no  more  ornamental  tree  grows  than  the 
linden.  We  drove  through  the  court  of  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  into  the  splendidly  arranged  and  highly 
cultivated  Public  Gardens. 

The  theatre  is  beautifully  located  on  the  curv- 
ing arm  of  one  of  Annecy's  many  canals.  It  is 
closed  in  the  summer  except  when  a  "troupe  de 
passage"  comes  along. 

The  little  village  at  the  end  of  the  Avenue  Eu- 
gene Sue  makes  Catholic  church  bells  for  the 
whole  world.  They  claimed  to  have  made  recent 
shipments  to  the  United  States.  They  should 
make  more  musical  chimes  for  Annecy.  The 
quarterly  striking  of  a  dismal  clock  throughout 
our  first  long,  cold,  sleepless  night  in  Annecy  was 
one  of  the  factors  which  hastened  our  departure. 


%  r^B       Mpy  /   (MM          > 

■   1                                Rife        ■• 

^v                 ""<&&Hr'mmm1mi- 

1  11 

..  a^  ■ ...  .*  El  ■ 

Chamonix  271 


0 


XX 

Chamonix 

HE  ticket  agent  said  we  would  not 
change  cars  before  reaching  Chamonix. 
Warned  by  past  experience  we  asked 
the  hotel  porter,  who  assured  us  that 
we  must  change  at  La  Roche  to  a  tram.  The 
porter  was  nearly  right.  The  ticket  agent  was 
entirely  wrong.  I  mention  this  to  illustrate  the 
amount  of  official  misinformation  that  an  indus- 
trious and  inquisitive  traveler  can  pick  up. 

We  ate  luncheon  in  the  diner  and  had  an  op- 
portunity to  confirm  a  suspicion  that  had  been 
crystallizing  and  taking  form  ever  since  we  first 
observed  French  people  at  their  meals.  Travel- 
ers frequently  err  in  describing  something  as  a 
regular  practice  which  may  never  have  occurred 
before  in  a  century.  One  day  I  was  walking 
down  a  busy  Chicago  street  with  an  English 
friend.  An  old  time  emigrant  wagon  towed  by 
oxen  came  slowly  toward  us.  It  was  part  of  a 
Wild  West  parade  that  had  lost  its  bearings.  My 
English   friend  whipped  out  his  note  book  and 


2J2  Three  Weeks  in  France 

said :  "How  interesting.  I  supposed  that  sort  of 
thing  had  been  done  away  with."  With  that 
lesson  in  mind  I  have  sought  a  repetition  of 
anything  bizarre  or  unusual  before  listing  it  as 
a  prevailing  practice.  But  I  feel  that  I  am  safe 
in  asserting  that  well  dressed  French  men  and 
women  at  the  table  use  their  bread  for  a  mop  and 
remove  from  their  plates  therewith  every  trace 
of  egg  or  gravy,  eating  the  mop  when  the  plate 
is  cleaned. 

By  the  table  d'hote  method  one  waiter  can 
serve  thirty-six  people  in  a  dining  car.  The 
removal  of  used  plates  is  simplified  by  the  mop- 
ping process  above  described. 

We  had  snow-clad  Alps  all  about  us.  At  La 
Roche  we  did  not  change  cars,  but  the  consensus 
of  opinion  was  that  we  would  do  so  at  Le  Fayet. 

Our  train  was  partly  filled  with  mountain 
climbers,  professional,  amateur  and  imitation. 
You  can  tell  the  first  by  their  complexions,  the 
second  by  their  alpenstocks,  and  the  third  by  their 
hats. 

We  were  in  Swiss  France  now  just  as  we  had 
been  in  Italian  France  when  on  the  Riviera. 
Chalets,  cliffs  and  waterfalls  made  the  scene  more 
suggestive  of  William  Tell  than  Napoleon.  Great 
citadels  of  natural  rock  were  lifted  high  in  the 
air  above  the  snow  line,  but  too  steep  for  the 
snow  to  find   permanent  lodgment.      Strata   of 


Chamonix  273 

granite  were  twisted  in  cooling  like  the  remains 
of  some  giant  candy  pull  and  then — 

Mont  Blanc ! 

Unmistakable  in  its  majesty  and  not  percepti- 
bly dwarfed  even  by  the  mass  of  clouds  swath- 
ing its  summit. 

At  Le  Fayet  we  did  change  to  a  tram  and 
after  eighteen  minutes  started  our  climb  to 
Chamonix,  in  little  wooden  cars  with  narrow 
wooden  seats  apparently  veneered  with  marble. 
The  natives  secured  the  shady  seats  while  we 
were  doing  some  altogether  useless  and  unneces- 
sary chasing  of  our  baggage  up  and  down  the 
platform. 

When  our  train  arrived  at  Le  Fayet  the  porter 
ran  alongside  pushing  a  truck  and  accumulated 
hand  baggage  as  it  was  sloughed  off  the  side  of 
the  train.  Gradually  he  acquired  it  all.  He 
needed  no  assistance  from  us  but  we  hung  around 
all  the  same.  Then  he  distributed  the  luggage 
to  its  owners  who  had  calmly  seated  themselves 
in  the  tram,  on  the  shady  side,  and  awaited  his 
pleasure.  There  was  absolutely  no  reason  for 
us  to  worry  but  unless  we  worried  occasionally 
we  might  as  well  be  traveling  in  the  United  States. 

The  view  of  Mont  Blanc  is  from  the  right  side 
and  we  were  on  the  left.  But  Mont  Blanc  is 
too  large  to  be  monopolized  and  we  had  a  good 
enough  view.     We  crossed  the  rushing  torrent 


274  Three  Weeks  in  France 

of  the  Arve,  a  part  of  which  is  diverted  and  led 
more  slowly  down  by  means  of  a  cement  ditch, 
and  like  a  giant  in  chains  it  turns  the  wheels  of 
our  trolley.     The  water  is  a  dirty  gray  in  color. 

The  glaciers  come  far  down  into  the  Valley 
of  Chamonix.  At  the  bottom  of  the  Glacier  des 
Bossons  the  blue  ice  peeps  through  the  dirt  and 
rock.  The  side  of  our  car  took  on  the  semblance 
of  a  grotto  with  pointing  figures  for  stalagmites. 

At  Chamonix  a  line  of  porters  was  awaiting 
our  train.  Back  of  them  in  serried  ranks  stood 
a  row  of  hotel  busses,  all  syndicated.  There  are 
no  individual  hotel  conveyances.  Your  porter 
puts  you  into  a  syndicate  bus  and  you  settle  your 
fare  with  the  hotel. 

At  the  hotel,  a  musical  voiced  woman  made  us 
a  price  of  eight  francs  per  day  for  a  room.  We 
had  hardly  nodded  our  acceptance  when  a  man 
appeared  and  said  the  price  was  ten  francs.  We 
said  we  had  already  entered  into  a  mutually  sat- 
isfactory arrangement  with  mademoiselle.  He 
gave  her  a  ten  franc  look  but  acquiesced  in  the 
lower  price.  Later  he  tried  unsuccessfully  to  re- 
coup himself  by  adding  three  francs  to  our  bill 
for  lights  and  service. 

A  notice  in  our  room  stated  that  each  guest  is 
taxed  four  cents  a  day  by  the  Committee  of  Em- 
bellishment for  a  fund  which  is  used  for  improve- 
ments which  will  add  to  the  comfort  of  visitors. 


XKARiXO    CHAMOXIX 


Chamonix  275 

The  mere  statement  of  the  fact  sounds  cheeky 
enough  after  you  get  home,  but  it  is  done  with 
so  much  aplomb  that  you  accept  it  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  commend  their  consideration  in  mak- 
ing the  charge  so  small. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  when  we  concluded 
our  arrangements,  not  enough  time  in  which  to 
visit  the  Mer  de  Glace,  but  too  much  daylight  to 
waste.  We  ordered  a  carriage  and  drove  out  to 
the  village  of  Argentiere,  along  a  panorama  of 
loveliness  on  every  side,  the  boiling  Arve  at  our 
feet  and  clouds  and  peaks  above  our  heads.  Back 
of  us,  framing  the  scene,  towered  Mont  Blanc. 
We  passed  hundreds  of  pedestrians  who  were  do- 
ing the  thing  properly.  A  sign  board  pointed 
the  road  to  Paradis  and  coaxed  a  smile  to  our 
faces  by  the  further  statement  that  it  was  "in- 
terdit  aux  automobiles."  It  added  a  new  attrac- 
tion to  Paradise  and  made  us  then  and  there  re- 
solve to  lead  better  lives. 

We  passed  the  Mer  de  Glace,  more  like  white 
and  green  marble  than  ice.  At  four  o'clock  the 
sun  had  set  for  the  dark  pines  on  the  slopes  to 
our  left.  The  road  was  smooth,  the  air  was 
clear  and  we  had  a  good  horse.  What  more  could 
mortal  ask? 

Far  out  in  the  country,  a  dry  goods  store  on 
wheels,   a  sort  of  van,  convertible  into  a  long 


2j6  Three  Weeks  in  France 

counter,  displayed  cheap  wares  to  rural  cus- 
tomers. 

The  village  of  Argentiere  is  huddled  near  the 
end  of  the  glacier  of  the  same  name.  So  far,  we 
pride  ourselves  on  the  fact  that  not  a  single  town 
in  this  book  has  "nestled."  We  do  not  consider 
a  glacier  as  an  object  which  invites  nestling. 

We  had  our  binoculars  and  by  their  use  could 
discern  that  what  we  had  taken  for  insects  on 
the  side  of  the  glacier  were  men  wielding  axes. 
We  hastily  assumed  that  these  were  guides  en- 
gaged in  cutting  steps.  Later  we  discovered  our 
error.  The  color  of  the  glacier  of  Argentiere 
is  a  pale  bottle-green,  shading  into  a  mushy  white, 
flecked  with  just  plain  dirt.  It  is  quite  a  walk 
from  the  road  to  the  glacier  but  we  were  shamed 
by  the  army  of  pedestrians  who  had  walked  from 
Chamonix  and,  tired  as  we  were,  we  started. 
We  reached  a  point  near  enough  the  foot  of  the 
glacier  to  discover  that  the  men  with  axes  were 
cutting  ice  and  shooting  it  down  a  chute  over  a 
mile  long  to  the  railroad  track  where  it  was 
loaded  into  cars  for  distribution  to  American 
tourists  on  demand. 

Then  we  paused.  We  could  have  walked  all 
the  way  and  never  felt  it.  But  we  thought  that 
to  stand  around  those  hard  working  men  and 
flaunt  our  holiday  merriment  in  their  faces  would 
be  inconsiderate.     So  we  returned  to  our  car- 


Chamonix  277 

riage,  stopping  at  one  or  two  inviting  cafes  to 
sip  lemonade.  The  walk  back  to  the  village  was 
shorter  despite  delays.  We  passed  many  old 
ladies  toiling  along  under  large  baskets  of  hay. 

The  little  guide  book  on  Chamonix  becomes  en- 
thusiastic when  it  tells  you  of  the  "refreshing 
breeze  from  the  glaciers  which  deliciously  fans 
your  face"  and  later  changes  to  a  more  conserva- 
tive tone  when  it  says,  "the  delighted  eye  will  rest 
upon  eternal  ice  and  snow  to  which  the  rising  sun 
imparts  incomparable  purple  hues;  a  sight  which 
once  seen,  will  scarcely  ever  be  forgotten."  I 
like  that  "scarcely  ever."  It  indicates  a  con- 
science potent,  if  belated,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
chronicler. 

The  ride  to  Chamonix  along  the  cold  waters 
of  the  Arve  was  a  delight.  Whenever  our  road 
crossed  the  stream  it  was  if  we  had  passed  into  a 
refrigerator.  Every  householder  along  the  way 
was  eating  dinner  under  the  trees  in  his  yard. 

Chamonix  was  "discovered"  in  1741  by  two 
English  travelers,  Pocock  and  Windham.  The 
fact  that  the  valley  had  a  history  dating  from 
the  eleventh  century  did  not  embarrass  these  dis- 
coverers. It  was  not  on  the  map  until  they  put 
it  there. 

The  Bishops  of  Geneva  visited  it  in  the  fifteenth 
century  and  St.  Francis  de  Sales  stayed  forty- 
eight  hours  in  Chamonix  in  1606,  twenty- four 


278  Three  Weeks  in  France 

hours  longer  than  our  record,  but  we  saw  more 
of  it  than  he  did. 

Nevertheless  in  1741  Pocock  and  Windham  as- 
sembled a  small  arsenal  at  Geneva  and  struck  out 
for  Chamonix  armed  like  a  modern  Englishman 
when  he  visits  Tombstone,  Arizona.  At  Mer  de 
Glace  they  discovered  that  the  supposed  brigands 
of  Chamonix  were  merely  guides  and  porters  and 
"by  that  time,"  in  the  language  of  Mark  Twain, 
"it  was  too  late  to  shoot." 

In  1760  the  mountain  climbers  broke  into  the 
game.  It  was  not  until  1786  that  the  summit  of 
Mont  Blanc  was  reached  by  Jacques  Balmat. 
Now  an  average  of  two  hundred  tourists  climb 
to  its  top  every  season.  There  is  a  monument  in 
Chamonix  to  de  Saussure,  the  physician-geologist 
who  in  1787  was  dragged  and  pushed  up  Mont 
Blanc  by  Balmat  and  seventeen  assistant  guides. 

We  asked  that  a  fire  be  built  in  the  grate  in 
our  room  in  order  to  take  off  the  chill.  There 
had  not  been  a  fire  therein  since  April.  As  a 
result  the  room  filled  with  smoke  and  we  had  to 
open  door  and  windows  to  get  rid  of  it.  That 
made  the  room  colder  than  ever.  Finally  the 
chimney  warmed  up  and  the  smoke  returned  to 
its  proper  channel. 

It  was  very  cozy  sitting  in  front  of  a  popping 
wood  fire  writing  post  cards  and  talking  over 
our  nearly  finished  trip. 


Chamonix  279 

There  were  many  German  visitors  at  the  hotels 
and  in  the  streets.  Americans  were  not  so  nu- 
merous and  most  of  them  betrayed  by  the  most 
fascinating  of  all  accents  that  they  were  from 
south  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line.  The  Germans 
marched  in  parties  and  frequently  wore  uniform 
hats.  They  were  all  vigorous  walkers.  The 
Americans,  principally  women,  seemed  more  in- 
terested in  buying  and  carrying  off  some  proof 
that  they  were  really  here  than  in  sight-seeing  or 
mountain  climbing. 

The  next  morning  the  barometer  pointed  to 
"Variable"  and  a  heavy  mist  obscured  the  moun- 
tains. Mont  Blanc  had  become  Mont  Blank.  The 
sidewalks  were  wet.  Nevertheless  we  bought 
round  trip  tickets  to  Montenvers,  the  station  for 
the  Mer  de  Glace.  This  famous  glacier  is  a 
mere  icicle  beside  some  of  those  in  our  own 
country.  It  is  only  nine  miles  long  but  is  noted 
for  its  swift  movement,  that  is,  swift  for  a  glacier. 
In  the  summer  and  autumn  it  rushes  into  the  val- 
ley at  the  rate  of  two  feet  a  month  and  frequently 
a  hotel  waiter  is  overtaken  and  crushed. 

The  sun  rewarded  our  faith  by  coming  out 
while  we  were  at  breakfast  and  our  French-Ger- 
man-English waitress  thought  it  would  be  a 
"tres  schon  clay." 

It  is  not  laziness  but  modesty  which  compels 


280  Three  Weeks  in  France 

rne  to  substitute  the  guide  book  for  my  feeble 
pen  for  a  description  of  the  ride  to  Montenvers. 

"The  view  over  Chamonix  now  becomes  ad- 
mirable: The  aspect  of  the  valley  of  the  'Arve' 
with  its  storied  chalets,  its  many  woods,  its  tor- 
rents, changes  and  amplifies  as  you  mount.  The 
view  reaches  its  highest  intensity  when  the  last 
viaduct  with  five  arches  (1852  metres)  is  crossed. 
Finally  after  turning  a  sharp  angle  of  the  line 
you  suddenly  perceive  the  prodigious  'Mer  de 
Glace'  with  its  framework  of  celebrated  peaks. 
The  crossing  of  the  glacier  is  not,  as  before  men- 
tioned, connected  with  any  danger,  but  a  guide  is 
necessary." 

Even  though  you  may  not  need  the  guide  his 
need  is  so  obvious  and  insistent  that  you  employ 
him. 

His  mission  in  life  is  to  select  the  most  difficult 
path  that  a  tenderfoot  can  tread.  Without  a 
guide,  a  blind  man  with  a  stick  could  cross  the 
Sea  of  Ice  dry  shod.  With  a  guide  you  require 
an  alpenstock  and  a  pair  of  quarter  hose.  The 
guide  costs  six  francs  and  the  quarter  hose  are 
marked  down  to  twenty  cents.  You  draw  the 
hose  on  over  your  shoes  and  the  guide  draws  you 
on  over  slippery,  steep  and  narrow  paths,  with 
crevasses  yawning  at  your  feet.  The  wonder  is 
that  they  do  not  laugh  at  your  feet,  encased  as 
they  are  in  yarn  socks.    After  the  first  ten  yards 


MEK    !)!•:   ('.LACK — CHAMONIX 


Chamonix  281 

your  feet  commence  to  get  wet  and  at  the  top  of 
the  first  fifty  foot  climb  they  begin  to  get  cold 
and  you  inquire  anxiously  for  a  short  cut  to  the 
moraine.  The  guide  finds  this  easily  and  con- 
ducts you  back  to  Mother  Earth  whence  you 
gaze  down  at  a  procession  of  knowing  ones  who 
are  tramping  sedately  across  the  practically  level 
glacier. 

Our  guide  did  all  the  regular  things  except 
to  rope  us — which  he  had  already  done  when  we 
accepted  his  terms.  He  cut  steps  with  his  axe 
and  pulled  us  up  them.  He  jumped  across 
crevasses  two  feet  wide  and  ten  feet  deep.  He  lied 
to  us  about  the  number  of  times  he  had  climbed 
Mont  Blanc  and  finding  us  receptive,  added  a 
couple  of  ascents  of  the  Jungfrau  to  his  conversa- 
tion. He  was  a  conscientious  worker  and  earned 
his  six  francs,  together  with  one  franc  pourboire 
which  we  added  for  the  Jungfrau  trips.  He 
promised  to  look  us  up  when  he  comes  to  Chicago. 
If  he  does  we  will  sell  him  the  Masonic  Temple 
and  recover  our  seven  francs. 

The  curtain  of  mist  descended  as  our  train 
pulled  out.  There  was  no  performance  that  after- 
noon for  those  who  came  on  the  late  train.  They 
had  to  be  satisfied  with  the  orchestra  of  cascades 
and  the  moving  pictures  of  clouds.  Possibly  the 
clouds  lifted.     Clouds  are  as  temperamental  as 


282  Three  Weeks  in  France 

prima  donnas  and  this  is  a  region  of  sudden 
changes. 

The  first  tunnel  as  you  descend  is  longer  than 
the  second  and  makes  a  complete  turn  under 
cover  of  the  mountain.  Consequently  you  should 
draw  your  car  curtains  before  entering  it  to 
keep  out  the  stifling  gas  from  the  engine.  Its 
length  and  its  conformation  make  ventilation  im- 
possible. 

When  you  emerge,  the  Valley  of  Chamonix 
has  been  picked  up  and  carried  to  the  opposite 
side  of  the  track.  At  least,  it  seems  to  have  been. 
The  landscape  below  is  a  relief  map  with  patched 
farms  and  toy  villages. 

We  reached  Chamonix  five  minutes  ahead  of 
a  mountain  thunder  storm.  It  rushed  up  the 
valley  with  great  speed.  We  ran  up  the  street 
with  less  rapidity  but  our  time  allowance  enabled 
us  to  beat  the  rain  to  the  hotel.  Within  three 
minutes  it  was  pouring  down  and  we  sat  at  our 
window  and  enjoyed  the  play  of  lightning  and 
the  music  of  the  thunder. 

More  people  walk  to  the  Mer  de  Glace  than 
ride.  They  think  nothing  of  an  all  day  jaunt 
and  rather  look  down  on  those  who  use  the  cog 
and  pinion  railway. 

The  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc  requires  two  days. 
The  night  is  spent  in  a  small  hotel  midway  to  the 
top  where  the  descending  guests  are  threatened 


Chamonix  283 

with  sunstroke  while  those  on  their  way  up  are 
being  treated  for  chilblains.  The  charge  for 
guides  for  the  round  trip  is  one  hundred  francs. 
We  concluded  it  was  too  steep.  There  are  so 
many  less  expensive  ways  for  an  awkward  man 
to  commit  suicide  which  do  not  involve  mourners 
in  a  half-century  wait  at  the  foot  of  a  glacier 
for  the  delivery  of  the  body. 

On  leaving  the  Chamonix  hotel  we  encountered 
our  first  claim  for  "extras."  The  practice 
seemed  so  generally  to  have  been  dropped  in 
France  that  we  had  grown  careless  and  when 
given  the  rate  we  had  failed  to  ask  if  it  included 
light  and  service.  If  we  had  asked,  no  doubt  we 
would  have  been  given  the  same  shrug,  the  same 
pained  look  and  the  identical  "Certainement, 
m'sieu,  tout  compris." 

We  knew  we  would  be  expected  to  pay  for 
the  fire  in  our  room.  A  fire  in  July  is  a  legiti- 
mate "extra."  But  we  objected  strenuously  to 
one  franc  for  lights,  especially  since  our  electric 
light  was  not  on  in  the  morning.  We  dressed  by 
the  "Alpine  glow"  but  did  not  feel  we  should 
be  charged  for  it.  The  clerk  assured  us  that 
the  charge  was  universal  in  Chamonix,  never- 
theless if  m'sieu  objected — m'sieu  did — and  the 
item  was  canceled.  The  tax  of  eight  cents  for 
local  improvements  was  included  and  paid.  Trav- 
elers submit  to  it  because  it  is  a  trifle  but  can  you 


284  Three  Weeks  in  France 

imagine  an  American  resort  taxing  its  patrons 
and  getting  away  with  it  ? 

It  rained  as  we  were  leaving  Chamonix,  our 
third  shower  in  three  weeks.  Not  one,  except 
the  rain  at  Monte  Carlo,  interfered  with  a  single 
plan. 

There  is  hardly  a  stable  in  France.  They  have 
all  become  garages,  with  the  facility  of  a  bar 
room  changing  to  a  drug  store  when  an  American 
community  goes  "dry." 

There  are  many  horses  in  use  and  we  noticed 
one  unusual  attention  paid  to  work  horses.  When 
blanketed  the  blanket  is  passed  under  as  well  as 
over  the  animal. 


Lyons  285 


XXI 

Lyons 


0~j  T  Le  Fayet,  we  tried  another  experiment. 
Our    railroad    tickets    required    us    to 
change  cars  at  Bellegarde,  a  frontier 
town  on  the  Swiss  border.    This  meant 
an  hour's  delay  in  reaching  Lyons.     We  took  a 
Geneva    train     changing    at     Annemasse     and 
awaited  the  outcome  with  interest. 

At  Annemasse  we  changed  cars  in  a  blinding 
rain  and  with  no  porters  in  sight.  Neither  train 
was  protected  by  a  shed  and  the  people  were 
deadly  deliberate  in  leaving  the  car  which  we 
wished  to  enter.  The  French  who  were  waiting 
with  us  were  impatient  but  silent,  so  I  called  out 
to  a  man  whose  descent  was  delayed  by  a  broken 
umbrella  "Vitement,  monsieur,  s'il  vous  plait." 
The  tone  probably  carried  more  conviction  than 
the  accent  and  he  hurried  off  while  I  received  the 
admiring  thanks  of  my  fellow  travelers  for  my 
bravery. 

The  buffet  was  only  ten  feet  from  our  car.  A 
waiter  was  signaled  and  he  crossed  the  interven- 


286  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ing  space  with  a  well  packed  lunch  box  which  was 
soon  spread  over  our  two  laps. 

At  Bellegarde  we  changed  cars  again,  thereby 
partly  vindicating  the  railroad  ticket.  It  was 
becoming  a  habit.  An  extra  frill  was  added.  Al- 
though we  had  not  consciously  been  out  of  France 
we  were  passed  through  a  custom  house  and  our 
luggage  was  opened  and  rummaged. 

The  local  guide  books  refer  to  Chamonix  as 
being  "neutral  ground"  but  geographies  and  en- 
cyclopaedias agree  in  placing  it  in  France.  We 
sought  a  solution  of  the  mystery  of  the  customs 
inspection  at  Bellegarde  but  our  inquiries  had  no 
other  result  than  to  arouse  suspicion  and  make 
the  investigation  more  thorough. 

It  was  after  eleven  o'clock  when  we  reached 
Lyons,  the  city  of  saints  and  silks.  It  is  also 
called  the  French  Moscow  because  of  its  geo- 
graphical situation  at  the  junction  of  the  Rhone 
and  Saone,  whose  names  are  pronounced  so  as  to 
rhyme.  Lyons  produces  one-third  of  the  world's 
silk,  but  its  output  of  saints  is  not  in  the  same 
ratio.  Its  first  martyrs  were  killed  in  177  on 
Fourviere  Hill.  The  basilica  of  Fourviere  is 
worth  a  visit.  It  is  not  quite  as  high  as  Mont 
Blanc  but  much  warmer  in  July.  There  is  a 
fine  view  of  Mont  Blanc  from  its  summit. 

The  old  Hotel  Dieu  or  hospital  was  founded 
in  542  by   King   Childebert.      All   hospitals   in 


Lyons  287 

France  are  supported  by  contributions  and  reve- 
nues and  pay  taxes  on  donations  and  legacies. 

Lyons  still  mourns  the  fact  that  she  was  the 
innocent  scene  of  the  assassination  of  President 
Carnot  in  1894.  He  was  killed  when  leaving 
the  Palais  de  la  Bourse  et  du  Commerce,  the 
Stock  Exchange  of  Lyons. 

Lyons  is  almost  as  old  as  Marseilles,  but  was 
a  sickly  child.  For  the  first  five  hundred  years 
she  watched  other  cities  pass  her  in  the  race  and 
said  "No  booms  for  me.  A  steady  growth  is 
much  better  than  a  boom."  Consequently  she 
could  hardly  stand  alone  until  about  43  B.  C. 

Her  name  was  changed  to  Commune  Affran- 
chie  by  the  Convention  and  later  there  were  or- 
ders issued  to  wipe  out  the  city  altogether. 
Robespierre's  "removal"  saved  Lyons. 

In  the  morning  we  ordered  a  carriage.  The 
usual  advance  per  hour  was  added  for  our  ac- 
cent. We  were  firm,  and  we  secured  the  carriage 
at  the  legal  rate  but  the  driver  was  angry.  We 
asked  to  have  the  top  lowered.  He  said  he  would 
lower  it  at  the  first  stop.  Wre  said,  "Lower  it 
NOW."  He  did  so  but  muttered  things  which 
our  French  instructor  had  never  thought  neces- 
sary to  teach  us.  We  drove  to  the  Church  of  St. 
Martin,  paid  him  the  single  trip  fare  and  dis- 
missed  him.     We   were  crowded    for  time  but 


288  Three  Weeks  in  France 

felt  that  we  must  have  either  honesty  or  courtesy. 
We  never  demand  both. 

Within  the  church  there  were  a  few  at  prayer. 
This  always  embarrasses  us.  We  have  not  yet 
mastered  the  correct  tourist  attitude  toward  na- 
tive worshippers.  We  tiptoed  about,  located  the 
sixth  century  door,  studied  the  restored  mosaic 
floor  of  the  choir  and  wondered  why  Baedeker 
starred  it. 

A  tram  leads  to  Place  Bellecour,  one  of  those 
popular  promenades  so  frequently  encountered 
in  French  cities,  abundantly  supplied  with  trees 
but  as  bare  of  grass  as  a  billiard  table.  A  band 
plays  here  during  the  summer  evenings  while  the 
people  walk  about,  gossip,  sit  on  the  stone  benches 
or  sip  wine  at  the  near-by  cafes  and  look  at  the 
equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XIV  and  thank  heaven 
his  days  are  over. 

One  is  apt  to  get  an  exaggerated  idea  of  the 
amount  of  drinking  in  France  by  seeing  the 
crowds  at  these  sidewalk  cafes.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  a  party  can  and  frequently  does  spend  a 
whole  evening  and  not  over  thirty  cents  at  a 
table. 

There  is  a  good  view  of  Notre  Dame  de  Four- 
viere  from  the  Place  Bellecour.  It  makes  a  very 
striking  picture  as  it  stands  on  its  high  hill  over- 
looking the  city.  It  is  easily  recognized  by  its 
Byzantine  lines  and  the  abundance  of  gilt  fig- 


OLD    <M.<  i(  'K    AT    I.VOXS 


Lyons  289 

ures  on  its  towers.  It  is  only  sixteen  years  old 
and  hence  is  "bizarre."  After  a  few  centuries 
have  worn  away  its  youthful  gilt  it  will  become 
"an  interesting  example  of  nineteenth  century 
architecture." 

Again  on  the  tram  and  still  breathing  defiance 
of  cab  drivers,  we  went  west  on  the  rue  Bellecour, 
across  the  river  to  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Jean.  It 
has  some  beautiful  windows  but  its  most  inter- 
esting exhibit  is  a  clock  of  the  sixteenth  or  seven- 
teenth century  which  strikes  five  times  a  day, 
not  often  enough  for  a  clock  and  too  often  for  a 
brick-layers'  union. 

There  are  two  processional  crosses  at  the  high 
altar  which  have  been  in  use  since  1274. 

We  tried  to  photograph  the  clock.  It  required 
a  five  minute  exposure  and  the  moment  we  placed 
our  camera,  the  hitherto  deserted  space  in  front 
of  us  filled  up.  First  a  priest  and  then  two  women 
manifested  a  sudden  interest  in  horology.  Then 
some  other  bystanders  discovered  something  in- 
teresting about  us.  We  outwaited  them  eventually 
and  secured  a  picture. 

The  Choristers'  Building  to  the  south  of  the 
main  entrance  of  the  cathedral  is  time-gnawed 
and  interesting. 

Lyons  has  a  fine  art  gallery  and  museum  oc- 
cupying an  old  Benedictine  monastery  on  the 
Place  des  Terraux. 


290  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  walked  across  the  Saone  on  the  Pont  du 
Palais  de  Justice  in  front  of  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice for  another  view  of  Fourviere  Hill  with  its 
cathedral-crowned  summit.  We  then  snapped  the 
Palais  with  a  foreground  of  washerwomen,  chat- 
tering, soaping,  rubbing  and  rinsing  in  the  river. 

Another  tram  ride  down  the  rue  de  la  Re- 
publique  to  the  rue  des  Cordeliers  and  a  short 
walk  took  us  to  the  Bourse,  on  the  steps  of  which 
President  Carnot  was  assassinated.  Then  we 
returned  to  the  hotel  via  the  rue  de  la  Republique 
in  a  street  car  whose  two  cent  passengers  are  not 
provided  with  seats.  We  have  paid  five  cents  for 
the  privilege  of  standing  up  in  American  street 
cars  so  the  incident  lacked  novelty. 

The  shopping  district  of  Lyons  showed  well 
groomed,  handsome  women,  but  no  large  stores. 
Many  goods  were  displayed  on  the  sidewalks. 
Bread  was  very  much  in  evidence  here  as  in  all 
France.  It  is  carried  nude  through  the  streets 
on  the  heads  or  in  the  hands  of  the  buyers.  One 
form  of  loaf,  shaped  like  a  life  preserver,  is  es- 
pecially adapted  to  the  head-carrying  method. 
It  is  never  wrapped  up.  If  you  are  finicky  and 
demand  paper,  a  piece  of  paper  large  enough  to 
interpose  between  your  hand  and  the  loaf  is  given 
you. 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  291 


1 


XXII 

The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau 

UR  hotel  at  Lyons  was  within  two  blocks 

of  the  depot,  so  we  dealt  our  final  blow 

to  the  cab  drivers  by  walking  to  the 

station   accompanied   by   the  concierge 

who  carried  our  bags  to  the  turnstile  where  they 

were  taken  in  charge  by  a  railroad  porter. 

The  train  pulled  out  across  the  Saone,  through 
a  long,  hot  tunnel  and  past  neat  suburbs  contrast- 
ing strongly  with  the  ragged  edge  of  most  Amer- 
ican cities. 

We  passed  a  gang  of  railroad  laborers  one-half 
of  whom  were  stripped  to  the  waist  and  burned 
to  a  dark  brown.  There  are  miles  of  vineyards 
between  Lyons  and  Dijon  where  we  ate  luncheon 
at  the  depot. 

The  buffet  at  Dijon  deserves  more  than  pass- 
ing mention.  It  was  the  best  railroad  eating 
house  of  our  trip.  Our  seats  were  in  full  view 
of  the  shining  kitchen  with  the  immaculate,  fat 
cook   all   in   white   and   working  in    front  of   a 


2g2  Three  Weeks  in  France 

roaring  wood  fire.  Everything  was  seasoned, 
cooked  and  served  to  perfection. 

Dijon  was  the  capital  of  Burgundy  when  that 
duchy  was  more  powerful  than  France.  Its 
dukes  were  feared  and  respected  more  than  some 
kings  in  the  fourteenth  and  fifteenth  centuries. 
Charles  the  Bold  was  the  last  to  hold  out  against 
the  Kings  of  France  but  the  family  came  back 
in  the  person  of  Charles  V  after  three  genera- 
tions. 

Louis  XI  of  France  obtained  possession  of  Bur- 
gundy from  Mary,  daughter  of  Charles  the  Bold, 
by  a  combination  of  begging,  borrowing  and 
steam-rolling.  Mary's  tomb  is  in  Bruges  and  is 
a  miracle  of  brass  work  as  was  also  Louis  XI.  See 
Quentin  Durward  for  an  easy  way  to  learn  more 
of  Charles  V. 

Dijon  was  Catholic  during  the  religious  wars 
and  offered  stubborn  resistance  to  Henry  IV. 
The  Germans  occupied  it  during  the  last  two 
months  of  1870. 

It  disdains  any  architecture  more  modern  than 
the  time  of  Louis  XIV.  Most  of  the  churches 
date  from  the  eleventh  century. 

A  lady  writer  who  visited  Dijon  in  1868  noted 
the  absence  of  "fiacres."  If  she  had  said  "car- 
riages" it  would  have  spoiled  the  page  for  her. 
Oh,  the  detestable  habit  of  using  your  Ollendorff 
instead  of  your  Lindley  Murray  to  express  an 
idea  or  suppress  it.     The  same  class  of  writers 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  293 

spell  rue  with  a  capital  R — but  alas!  so  does 
Baedeker.  But  Baedeker  is  German  and  has  a 
weakness  for  French  capitals. 

The  lugging  in  of  foreign  words  and  phrases 
is  especially  prevalent  among  women  who  write 
travel  books,  as  if  one  tongue  were  not  ample 
for  any  book  or  any  woman.  The  only  time 
I  use  French  superfluously  is  when  I  want  to 
mention  the  Creator  without  swearing.  Then 
it  is  very  handy. 

Dijon  was  taken  from  the  Germans  by  Gen- 
eral Cremer  and  later  held  by  Garibaldi. 

We  wanted  to  stop  longer  but  only  one  day 
of  our  three  weeks  remained  and  this  belonged 
to  Fontainebleau. 

We  took  a  slow  train  to  Fontainebleau.  We 
were  ten  hours  in  reaching  it  from  Lyons.  This 
gave  us  ample  time  to  debate  the  question,  Re- 
solved :  That  it  would  have  been  better  to  take 
the  Paris  Express  and  return  to  Fontainebleau 
by  local  train. 

At  Tonnerre  we  waited  forty-five  minutes 
while  the  Paris  Express  went  by  us  with  a  shriek 
of  triumph.  This  gave  fresh  impetus  to  the  de- 
bate. 

A  shower  overtook  us  at  Tonnerre  which  by 
the  time  we  reached  Sens  had  become  a  soaking 
rain.  We  unpacked  rain  coats,  rubbers  and  um- 
brellas.    When  we   reached   Fontainebleau,   not 


294  Three  Weeks  in  France 

a  drop  of  rain  had  fallen  and  the  stars  were  shin- 
ing. The  drive  from  the  depot  to  the  village  is 
half  a  mile  long.  At  the  hotel  we  awakened  a 
sleepy  maid  who  took  a  heavy  suit  case  in  each 
hand  and  preceded  us  to  a  room.  We  were  soon 
asleep  and  dreaming  a  mixture  of  cathedrals, 
chateaus  and  cascades. 

Fontainebleau  is  a  town  of  about  14,000  peo- 
ple entirely  surrounded  by  forest  and  tourists. 
Its  two  attractions  are  the  Wood  and  the  Palace. 
No  matter  what  sort  of  a  day  it  is,  you  can  en- 
joy yourself  at  Fontainebleau.  If  the  sun  shines 
you  can  hie  yourselves  merrily  to  the  Forest.  If 
it  is  cloudy,  walk  across  the  street  to  the  most  in- 
teresting palace  in  France. 

Francis  I  made  it  the  splendid  thing  it  is  in 
the  sixteenth  century  and  two  hundred  and 
seventy-five  years  later  Napoleon  I  came  along 
and  stole  all  his  thunder  and  replaced  it  with 
plunder.  Most  of  the  living  interest  to-day  cen- 
ters in  the  places  where  Napoleon  did  things  or 
had  things  done  to  him.  Here  he  first  mentioned 
the  subject  of  divorce  to  Josephine  in  1809.  After 
he  had  secured  an  heir  for  his  empire  he  had  no 
empire  for  his  heir. 

Here  Napoleon  attempted  suicide  April  12, 
1 81 4,  before  his  first  abdication.  Flere  he  en- 
tertained Pope  Pius  VII  and  later  imprisoned 
him.     Napoleon  restored  religion  to  France  after 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  295 

the  Revolution  but  like  most  restorers  he  re- 
modeled it  to  his  own  tastes  and  purposes. 

Here  he  drank  the  cup  of  expiation  to  its 
dregs;  here  he  said,  "It  is  right;  I  receive  what 
I  have  deserved." 

Francis  I  brought  da  Vinci  and  other  great 
artists  from  Italy  to  decorate  the  Palace.  He 
entertained  Charles  V  here  in  1539.  Flow  its 
brilliancy  must  have  contrasted  with  the  gloomy 
Escurial. 

Here  in  1685  was  signed  another  important 
paper,  the  Revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes,  by 
which  Louis  XIV  hoped  to  correct  his  moral  aver- 
age with  one  stroke  of  the  pen. 

Baedeker  warns  you  to  price  everything  in 
advance.  Nevertheless  we  found  the  rates  at 
the  Cadran  Bleu  very  reasonable  and  the  serv- 
ice satisfactory.  Our  breakfast  was  eaten  in 
a  half  garden,  half  dining  room  arrangement 
which  spoke  eloquently  of  the  erratic  nature  of 
summer  weather  in  the  neighborhod  of  Paris. 

Notwithstanding  the  clouds,  we  ordered  a  vic- 
toria for  a  day  in  the  Forest.  The  lady  clerk  at 
the  hotel  shrugged  her  shoulders  in  disdain  at  the 
barometer  whose  warning  arrow  was  a  trifle  to 
the  left  of  Variable.  With  equal  eloquence  would 
she  have  indicated  its  confirmation  of  her  proph- 
ecy if  it  had  marked  "Dry"  on  the  circle. 

The  Forest  is  a  tiny  thing  of  42,500  acres  left 


296  Three  Weeks  in  France 

untilled  that  B.  and  I  and  a  few  thousand  others 
might  wander  about  and  picnic  to  our  hearts' 
content.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  bit  of  woods  in 
France.  Further  than  that,  deponent,  with  his 
memory  filled  with  the  Wood  at  The  Hague  and 
the  Forest  of  Assen,  doth  not  say. 

The  Seine  hereabouts  is  wild  and  wanton,  a 
sparkling  rural  beauty  and  not  the  boat-carrying 
drudge  she  is  in  Paris. 

The  Forest  abounds  in  dry  gorges,  rocks  and 
shady  nooks.  A  fire  in  1897  destroyed  acres  of 
trees.  Now  signs,  beginning  at  the  hotel,  and 
spreading  all  through  the  Forest  warn  visitors  to 
be  careful  with  their  matches. 

At  least  that  is  my  interpretation  but  I  am 
sometimes  unreliable.  I  dropped  a  coin  into  a 
box  in  a  certain  cathedral  which  I  thought 
would  bring  temporary  relief  to  my  friends  in 
purgatory  only  to  discover  when  B.  returned  that 
"les  ames"  meant  "the  souls"  and  not  "the 
friends."  So  my  ten  sous  will  be  spent  on  a 
lot  of  perfect  strangers. 

Our  first  stop  was  at  the  foot  of  the  Tour 
Denecourt,  once  a  fort,  and  later  the  headquar- 
ters of  M.  Denecourt,  who  spent  his  patrimony  in 
putting  the  Forest  into  shape.  There  is  a  medal- 
lion of  him  at  the  top  of  the  tower.  The  medallion 
is  almost  covered  by  ivy.  That  is  proper.  He 
would  have  loved  the  ivy  more  than  the  medallion. 


A   ROAl»    IX    THE    FORKKT    OK    K<  >.\"l\\  I  N  KULKA  1* 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  297 

There  is  a  good  view  of  the  Eiffel  Tower  from 
this  point. 

Our  way  lay  over  smooth  roads,  with  dust  laid 
by  rain  which  fell  the  night  before  after  we  were 
safely  in  our  hotel.  The  road  curved  in  grand 
avenues  of  old  trees  flanked  by  green  carpets 
marked  into  most  entrancing  patterns  by  sunlight 
and  shadow. 

So  far  as  eye  or  ear  could  determine  we  were 
alone  in  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau.  Not  even 
the  note  of  a  bird  broke  the  silence.  We  inquired 
the  reason  for  the  entire  absence  of  birds  and 
were  told  that  it  was  due  to  the  lack  of  water. 
There  are  no  running  streams  and  only  a  few 
springs.  The  roots  of  the  trees  tap  a  subter- 
ranean supply.  The  fallen  leaves  of  centuries 
have  formed  a  lush  mould  of  great  depth  in 
which  everything  grows  luxuriantly. 

The  Cross  of  Calvary  occupies  a  prominent 
point  from  which  there  is  a  good  view  of  the  vil- 
lage of  Fontainebleau  in  the  heart  of  the  Forest. 
Here  and  there  are  brown  scars  in  the  green, 
cicatrized  after  the  big  fires  of  the  past.  The 
most  recent  fire  was  in  191 1. 

We  paused  again  for  a  view  of  the  race  course 
and  field  of  maneuver  for  cavalry  beyond  which 
lie  the  Rocks  of  St.  Germain. 

Fontainebleau    compared    with    the    Park    at 


298  Three  Weeks  in  France 

Versailles  is  the  work  of  God  placed  alongside 
that  of  Louis  XIV.    It  is  nature  vs.  art. 

One  of  the  rare  springs  in  the  Forest  is  near  the 
Rock  which  Trembles.  This  is  part  of  a  group 
of  rocks  and  has  been  made  the  headquarters  of 
a  souvenir  dealer.  The  spring  was  discovered  in 
1624  and  the  water  is  clear  and  cold.  The  trem- 
bling rock  is  one  of  a  group  of  boulders  which 
rests  on  the  others  by  three  slender  points  of  con- 
tact. It  weighs  many  tons  but  is  so  delicately  ad- 
justed that  a  man  can  make  it  move  by  standing 
on  it. 

We  passed  many  famous  old  trees,  with  here 
and  there  the  prostrate  trunk  of  some  giant 
which  had  fallen  after  a  battle  of  centuries  with 
the  elements.  The  oldest  tree  now  standing  is 
over  fourteen  hundred  years  of  age. 

We  started  shopping  for  wooden  nut  crackers. 
The  first  one  offered  us  was  marked  twelve  francs. 
At  the  next  stop,  near  Jupiter,  a  titan  six  and 
a  half  metres  around,  the  market  broke  to  ten 
francs  and  a  half.  Jupiter  is  twenty-five  metres 
high  and  is  the  largest  and  most  impressive  oak 
in  the  forest.  We  felt  that  its  proximity  had  af- 
fected the  price  of  nut  crackers,  and  waited. 

There  was  no  booth  near  the  Chene-charme', 
or  charmed  oak,  and  hence  there  were  no  nut 
crackers.     Here  are  two  trees,  an  elm  and  an 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  299 


oak,  in  a  centuries-long  embrace  which  has 
gradually  hugged  the  bark  from  the  latter. 

Luncheon  time  found  us  near  the  Restaurant 
Franchard.  We  had  been  warned  to  ascertain 
prices  before  ordering.  Either  because  of  a  scar- 
city of  food  and  water  (both  must  be  brought 
from  the  village)  or  the  scarcity  of  tourists,  the 
figures  are  nearly  Alpine.  You  can  almost  pick 
edelweiss  from  some  of  them.  They  have  no 
table  d'hote  and  the  carte  du  jour  is  silent  on  the 
money  question.  We  named  over  a  simple 
luncheon  for  two.  The  price  was  fourteen  francs. 
Fourteen  francs  would  not  buy  much  food  in 
New  York  but  it  is  the  price  of  four  dinners  in 
France.  We  proceeded  to  eliminate  until  we 
reached  ten  francs  at  which  point  our  sharpened 
appetites  called  a  halt.  The  luncheon  was  well 
worth  the  price. 

Stevenson  has  tried  to  describe  the  charms  of 
the  Forest  and  failed  to  satisfy  himself,  so  why 
need  a  humbler  scribe  make  the  attempt?  We 
can  heartily  endorse  his  statement  that  the  For- 
est, although  of  considerable  extent  is  hardly 
anywhere  tedious.  We  like  his  reference  to  the 
"cruising  tourist"  on  the  broad  white  Paris  road. 
He  puts  much  in  a  sentence  when  he  says  that 
Fontainebleau  "is  not  a  wilderness;  it  is  rather 
a  preserve." 

But  like  a  wise  painter,  he  does  not  attempt  to 


300  Three  Weeks  in  France 

place  a  whole  county  on  canvas,  but  selects  pretty 
spots  here  and  there  on  which  the  searchlight  of 
his  genius  pauses  with  illuminating  effect. 

The  spell  of  the  Forest  is  indescribable.  It 
lies  in  its  deep  shadows,  its  silences,  its  hoary 
trunks,  half  clothed  in  moss,  its  dark,  dank  soil 
of  leaves  softer  than  the  richest  carpet,  its  per- 
fect roads  and  its  towering  trees  that  are  be- 
littled by  the  term  "monarchs,"  so  proud  and 
lofty  are  their  heads. 

We  tramped  through  the  Gorge  Franchard  in 
the  wake  of  fifty  American  women,  one  discour- 
aged looking  man  and  a  small  boy  to  whom  some 
one  with  more  heart  than  head  had  given  a 
cuckoo  whistle.  We  walked  under  a  broiling 
sun  past  many  curious  boulder  formations,  one 
of  which  was  named  by  the  possessor  of  a 
good  imagination,  Napoleon's  Hat.  Chameleons 
scampered  for  cover,  disturbed  by  our  invasion. 

Our  walk  ended  at  the  Fountain  of  Hermits,  a 
most  disappointing  finish  to  a  prostrating  walk, 
for  the  water  therein  is  not  potable.  It  was  dis- 
covered in  1 169  and  in  1192  there  is  on  record  a 
letter  from  Brother  William,  third  hermit  of 
Franchard  to  his  superior,  Stephen,  in  which 
William  says:  "The  water  of  your  fountain  is 
neither  beautiful  to  look  at  nor  good  to  drink." 
Apparently  it  has  not  improved  with  age. 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  301 

Our  horse  having  been  feci  and  rested,  into  the 
woods  we  plunged  again  past  every  form  of 
tree  sculpture  and  arboreal  contortion  and  delir- 
ium imaginable;  past  miles  of  trunks  as  straight 
as  telegraph  poles,  with  here  and  there  a  gnarled 
and  twisted  giant  writhing  in  the  agonies  of 
vegetable  rheumatism  in  its  most  acute  form. 

Then  we  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  portal  of 
a  great  cathedral  boundless  in  extent,  embodying 
every  form  of  column  and  arch  and  with  the 
sunlight  sifting  through  windows,  leaded  by  leaf 
and  branch  into  a  thousand  graceful  outlines  a 
hundred  feet  above  our  heads. 

A  short  walk  took  us  to  the  Desert,  a  paradox- 
ical quarter  section  in  the  heart  of  the  woods 
without  a  tree  on  it,  nothing  but  rocks,  sand 
and  bunch  grass.  It  was  hot  in  the  Desert,  cool 
in  the  Forest.  Most  of  the  paving  stone  in  Paris 
comes  from  Fontainebleau,  possibly  from  this 
desert  region.  The  only  hotter  pavement  dis- 
trict is  the  one  where  good  intentions  are  used. 

Another  walk  and  a  stiff  climb  brought  us  to 
the  Brigands'  Cave.  Here,  of  all  places,  we 
found  nut-crackers  at  six  francs  and  a  half  at 
a  booth  conducted  by  a  degenerate  son  of  a  rob- 
ber sire.  Two  or  three  hundred  years  ago  sixty 
brigands  lived  in  this  cave.  To  reach  it  we  fol- 
lowed mysterious  red  marks  on  the  rocks  suggest- 
ing b-lud,  up  a  path  made  easy  by  a  network  of 


302  Three  Weeks  in  France 

interlacing  roots,  to  the  mouth  of  a  dark,  dismal 
cavern,  traversible  with  the  assistance  of  a  small 
boy  and  a  candle.  t  A  couple  of  lemonades  re- 
freshed us  for  our  return  trip,  which  was  outlined 
by  blue  marks  on  trees  and  rocks. 

We  drove  to  Barbizon  past  the  medallion  of 
Millet  and  Rousseau,  and  almost  missed  it.  It 
sits  well  back  from  the  road  and  is  placed  in  the 
natural  rock,  nearly  hidden  by  trees  and  other 
rocks. 

The  street  of  Barbizon  is  lined  with  dozens  of 
picturesque  and  tiny  villas,  many  of  which  are  the 
homes  of  painters.  The  hotel  where  R.  L.  S. 
wrote  his  notes  on  Fontainebleau  proudly  em- 
blazons that  fact  on  its  sign  board.  We  wonder 
if  it  is  still  conducted  as  it  was  in  his  day. 

"Siron's  Inn,  that  excellent  artists'  barrack, 
was  managed  upon  easy  principles.  At  any  hour 
of  the  day  or  night  when  you  returned  from 
wandering  in  the  forest  you  went  to  the  billiard 
room  and  helped  yourself  to  liquors,  or  descended 
to  the  cellar  and  returned  laden  with  beer  or 
wine.  The  Sirons  were  all  locked  in  slumber; 
there  was  none  to  check  your  inroads ;  only  at  the 
week's  end  a  computation  was  made;  the  gross 
sum  was  divided,  and  a  varying  share  set  down 
to  every  lodger's  name  under  the  rubric ;  estrats. 
The  whole  of  your  accommodations,  set  aside 
that  varying  item  of  the  estrats,  cost  you  five 


The  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  303 

francs  per  day;  your  bill  was  never  offered  you 
until  you  asked  for  it,  and  if  you  were  out  of 
luck's  way,  you  might  depart  for  where  you 
pleased  and  leave  it  pending." 

It  is  a  question  whether  Millet  or  Siron  was 
the  more  potent  magnet  in  drawing  artists  to  Bar- 
bizon. 

The  humble  home  of  Millet  contrasts  strongly 
with  the  sumptuous  abode  of  Rousseau. 

School  was  just  letting  out  and  a  dozen  beau- 
tiful children,  each  an  artist's  model,  came  troop- 
ing into  the  sunlight. 

Leaving  Barbizon  we  went  through  a  pathless 
wood  out  into  a  woodless  path  where  for  a  mile 
or  more  there  was  not  a  tree  within  fifty  yards 
of  the  road. 

We  followed  the  "broad,  white  causeway  of  the 
Paris  road;  a  road  conceived  for  pageantry," 
writes  R.  L.  S.,  "and  for  triumphal  marches,  an 
avenue  for  an  army." 

We  passed  the  scene  of  the  big  fire  of  1897 
and  found  the  Paris  road  a  better  avenue  for  an 
army  than  for  a  carriage,  for  it  was  full  of  ruts 
and  sadly  needed  mending. 

The  Cross  of  the  Grand  Veneur  is  a  famous 
rendezvous  for  hunters.  The  Route  of  Louis 
Philippe  leads  past  the  Tree  of  Louis  Philippe. 
It  is  one  of  the  grandest  avenues  in  the  forest. 
We  left  it  by  the  Route  of  Gros  Fouteau. 


304  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  wasted  an  hour  tramping"  through  the 
woods,  searching  for  The  Eagle's  Nest.  We  left 
the  carriage  with  a  vague  idea  that  it  was  a 
real  nest  or  a  rocky  eyrie  of  some  sort,  or  pos- 
sibly a  view  point  for  surveying  the  surroundings. 
Anyhow,  it  was  one  of  the  sights  of  Fontaine- 
bleau,  and  we  wanted  to  see  it.  It  never  occurred 
to  us  that  it  was  a  magnificent  group  of  trees  with 
a  fancy  name,  so  we  walked  a  mile  or  so,  mostly 
up  hill,  past  interesting  boulders,  watching  for 
blue  marks  on  the  trees  and  stones  and  accumulat- 
ing a  few  on  our  persons.  We  admired  many 
groups  of  trees  and  may  have  seen  the  Nid  de 
l'Aigle  but  we  were  not  looking  for  trees  and  our 
walk  was  in  that  respect  a  failure. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  carriage  we  heard  sev- 
eral halloos  and  when  we  reached  him  our  driver 
was  quite  perturbed  by  our  long  absence  and 
more  disappointed  than  we  were  over  the  out- 
come. 


The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau  305 


XXIII 

The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau 


0WALK  up  the  main  street  of  Fon- 
tainebleau on  Sunday  morning  gave  but 
slight  evidence  of  the  day.  The  shops 
were  open  or  opening.  Work  was  pro- 
ceeding on  a  building  in  course  of  construc- 
tion. That  is,  two  men  were  pounding  a  chisel 
held  by  a  third,  and  gradually,  very  gradually, 
cutting  a  steel  girder  in  two.  At  the  rate  they 
were  progressing,  an  American  contractor  would 
erect  a  story  of  a  steel  structure  in  less 
time  than  they  would  take  to  amputate  the  end 
of  that  girder. 

Only  the  Market  was  closed.  Its  bright,  clean 
stalls  looked  as  if  they  had  never  been  used.  A 
great  many  neatly  dressed  women  were  on  their 
way  to  early  service  at  the  churches.  Here  and 
there  one  of  them  stopped  to  look  in  at  the  tempt- 
ing door  of  a  dry  goods  store  or  milliner's  shop. 
A  few  carried  loaves  of  bread  or  other  breakfast 
necessities. 

A  mournful  statue  of  President  Carnot  erected 


306  Three  Weeks  in  France 

by  popular  subscription,  depressed  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  rue  Grande  between  our  hotel  and 
the  Hotel  de  Ville. 

Our  hotel,  by  the  way,  is  an  ancient  structure, 
as  its  name,  the  Blue  Dial  or  Cadran  Bleu  would 
suggest.  No  one  knows  the  origin  of  the  singular 
appellation  but  the  house  claims  an  antiquity  of 
several  centuries.  It  has  one  striking  peculiarity : 
Henry  IV  never  slept  there. 

The  Palace  is  across  the  street  and  a  few  doors 
down.  It  was  a  delightful  surprise  to  find  any- 
thing within  walking  distance.  We  went  early 
and  loafed  around  the  Cour  du  Cheval  Blanc  or 
the  Cour  des  Adieux,  as  it  is  sometimes  called, 
because  it  was  the  scene  of  Napoleon's  heart- 
rending farewell  to  the  Old  Guard,  April  20, 
1 81 4.  Eleven  months  later  he  returned  from 
Elba  and  reviewed  his  troops  on  the  same  spot 
before  marching  to  Paris.  He  had  an  instinct 
for  the  spectacular  unequaled  for  almost  a  hun- 
dred years. 

We  went  around  to  the  left  of  the  main  en- 
trance, past  the  old  gate  and  into  the  Palace 
yard,  then  through  two  iron  gates  and  into  the 
parterre,  dating  from  Louis  XIV.  We  strolled 
down  the  Avenue  de  Maintenon,  midway  of 
which  we  paused  to  photograph  the  Chateau 
Maintenon. 

Mme.  de  Maintenon  was  the  flame  of  the  later 


The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau  307 

years  of  Louis  XIV.  She  appealed  more  to 
his  intellect  than  his  passion.  In  1682,  when  he 
"reformed,"  la  Valliere  had  been  Sister  Louise 
for  eight  years  and  Mile,  de  Fontanges  had  been 
dead  a  year. 

Republics  may  require  ages  to  polish  up  and 
refine  a  "gentleman"  but  the  time  is  much  bet- 
ter spent  than  in  desiccating  manhood  until  it 
can  admire  and  condone  such  a  character  as  that 
of  Louis  XIV.  Coupled  with  his  defiance  of 
everything  but  God,  it  was  considered  a  virtue 
that  he  would  kneel  humbly  before  an  obscure 
priest,  thus  proving  the  tyrant  to  be  a  coward  at 
heart,  the  slave  of  superstition.  He  was  always 
a  religious  hypocrite.  He  never  missed  mass  even 
if  he  had  to  tear  himself  from  the  arms  of  one 
of  his  mistresses  to  attend.  After  his  final  ref- 
ormation he  did  penance  by  paying  more  atten- 
tion to  his  wife,  Therese  of  Austria,  his  cousin 
German. 

Mine,  de  Maintenon  was  the  widow  of  Scar- 
ron,  a  paralyzed  and  crippled  poet.  After  his 
death  she  became  the  governess  of  la  Valliere's 
children.  Louis  was  matrimonially  ambidextrous. 
Most  of  his  marriages  were  left  handed.  Mme. 
de  Maintenon  realized  that  there  is  a  tide  in 
the  passions  of  men  which  taken  at  its  ebb  leads 
to  reform.  At  this  period,  Louis  was  forty-four. 
He  had  seen  one  mistress  take  the  veil,  a  second 


308  Three  Weeks  in  France 

die  in  childbirth  and  a  third,  unhappiest  fate  of 
all,  grow  old,  and  his  neglected  wife  slip  into 
her  grave.  When  they  married  the  widow  of 
Scarron  was  fifty.  Louis  was  forty-seven.  He 
loved  her,  she  did  not  love  him.  He  had  done 
too  much  for  her  to  inspire  love. 

In  1794  his  body  with  others  was  taken  from 
St.  Denis  and  thrown  into  a  pit.  The  lead  of  his 
coffin  was  melted  into  bullets  for  Revolutionists. 

We  walked  to  the  southern  extremity  of  the 
big  pond  in  the  Cour  de  la  Fontaine  and  pho- 
tographed the  Chinese  Museum.  The  park  was 
filling  up  with  Sunday  visitors  from  Paris. 

A  soldier  with  a  hare  lip  gave  us  much  in- 
formation and  we  engaged  him  in  a  prolonged 
conversation.  We  could  not  deny  ourselves  the 
pleasure  of  listening  to  a  Frenchman  whose  ac- 
cent was  worse  than  our  own.  From  him  we 
learned  that  the  rules  of  the  park  were  enforced 
rationally  and  that  "Keep  off  the  Grass"  signs 
did  not  forbid  your  stepping  from  the  path  to 
find  a  better  spot  for  your  camera. 

We  went  with  a  large  crowd  through  the 
rooms  of  the  Palace,  the  best  furnished  royal 
residence  we  have  ever  visited.  Its  especial  pride 
is  in  its  tapestries,  Gobelins  and  Flemish.  They 
rank  second  in  the  eyes  of  the  public  to  one  ex- 
hibit only  and  that  is  Napoleon's  hat  which  he 
tossed  into  the  ring  once  too  often  after  Elba. 


The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau  309 

The  hat  is  in  his  former  apartments  to  which 
has  also  been  removed  the  cradle  of  his  son,  the 
King  of  Rome.  We  wonder  where  the  cradle  of 
Napoleon  is  and  whether  it  still  lulls  to  sleep  an 
occasional  Corsican  infant. 

A  large  plan  of  Fontainebleau  hangs  on  the 
walls  of  his  secretary's  room.  Our  hearts  went 
out  to  that  faithful  secretary  Bourrienne  who 
had  to  be  at  the  elbow  of  this  very  excitable  gen- 
tleman every  hour  of  the  day  and  night. 

Napoleon's  bathroom  is  adorned  with  beauti- 
fully painted  mirrors  brought  from  the  apart- 
ments of  Marie  Antoinette  in  the  Petit  Trianon 
at  Versailles.  How  different  must  have  been 
their  reflections  after  their  removal  to  Fontaine- 
bleau. Splashed  by  the  Corsican  upstart  who  had 
wiped  out  the  Bourbon  dynasty  of  a  thousand 
years  and  who  sat  on  the  throne  of  France  by  the 
practically  unanimous  consent  of  the  people! 

The  next  room  is  the  one  in  which  Napoleon 
signed  his  first  abdication,  the  one  that  did  not 
take.  The  table  on  which  this  historical  docu- 
ment received  his  august  signature  would  not 
bring  two  dollars  at  a  second  hand  store,  dis- 
sociated from  its  history.  It  is  plain,  small  and 
utterly  disproportioned  to  its  great  purpose.  And 
yet  dramatically,  the  effect  is  heightened  by  the 
contrast. 

Napoleon's  study  has  a  handsomely  decorated 


310  Three  Weeks  in  France 

ceiling  representing  Law  and  Justice — up  in  the 
air.  We  saw  his  much  neglected  bed,  and  in  the 
same  room  is  a  clock  with  a  beautiful  cameo  be- 
decked case  which  Pope  Pius  VII  gave  to  him  on 
his,  the  Pope's,  first  visit  to  Fontainebleau.  On 
the  second  visit  no  presents  were  exchanged. 

In  the  Council  Chamber  we  particularly  ad- 
mired the  tapestry  of  the  furniture.  In  the  center 
of  the  room  is  a  large  table,  whose  top  is  made 
from  a  single  slab  of  wood. 

The  Throne  Room  is  magnificent.  The  throne 
is  draped  in  royal  blue  with  golden  bees  embroid- 
ered on  the  cloth.  The  guide  showed  his  ap- 
preciation of  our  presence  by  saying  "Busy  bees" 
in  English.  You  will  hear  more  of  that  guide 
later  on.  The  chandelier  in  this  room  is  of  rock 
crystal.  There  are  many  glass  chandeliers  in  the 
palace  but  this  is  the  only  one  of  rock  crystal.  It 
requires  an  expert  to  distinguish  it  from  the 
others. 

Marie  Antoinette's  apartments  formerly  held 
the  cradle  of  the  King  of  Rome  which  is  now  in 
the  bedroom  of  Napoleon.  But  there  is  still  much 
to  attract  the  eye  in  Marie  Antoinette's  boudoir. 
The  furniture  is  upholstered  in  gold  and  blue  with 
a  blue  and  white  satin  panel  set  in  each  chair,  not 
where  it  is  sat  in,  but  in  the  back.  It  resembles 
Wedgewood  pottery. 

The  library  is  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  feet 


The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau  311 

long  and  contains  thirty  thousand  volumes  col- 
lected by  the  two  Napoleons.  There  you  can 
also  find  a  facsimile  of  Napoleon's  abdication. 
The  original  is  probably  on  exhibition  in  Berlin. 
You  can  buy  other  facsimiles  of  this  document 
printed  on  post  cards. 

Henry  IV  built  this  part  of  the  Palace.  Napo- 
leon restored  it.  He  did  not  restore  many  things, 
but  he  did  the  Palace. 

From  the  windows  of  the  large  Reception 
Rooms  there  is  a  view  of  the  first  chateau  built 
by  Francis  I.  Then  come  more  acres  of  Gobelins 
and  a  room  adorned  with  Flemish  tapestry  illus- 
trating the  myth  of  Psyche  whose  name  in  French 
rhymes  with  Vichy. 

In  the  rooms  built  by  Francis  I  we  again  en- 
countered herds  of  salamanders  and  dozens  of 
capital  F's>  Portraits  of  Henry  IV  and  Louis 
XIII,  marvelously  executed  in  tapestry,  are 
framed  and  hung  on  the  walls,  but  the  two  mira- 
cles of  weaving  are  a  pair  of  flower  pieces  in  the 
same  room. 

This  being  a  busy  day,  with  hundreds  of  sight- 
seers roaming  through  the  palace,  the  regular  trip 
ended  in  the  Vestibule  of  Honor  with  its  six  beau- 
tifully carved  doors,  two  of  which  are  of  the  time 
of  Louis  XIII.  When  the  doors  are  closed  the 
carvings  blend  into  perfect  designs  and  resemble 
solid  panels. 


312  Three  Weeks  in  France 

We  were  desperate.  Our  time  was  up  and  we 
had  not  seen  the  apartments  of  the  Pope.  Our 
guide  was  sorry  but  on  account  of  the  crowd  it 
was  impossible  to  show  those  rooms.  We  ac- 
quiesced in  the  reasonableness  of  the  rule,  ex- 
plained how  disappointed  we  were  and  told  him 
how  far  we  had  come.  The  Frenchmen  were 
handing  him  coppers  and  ten  sou  pieces.  We 
made  a  plunge  and  pressed  two  francs  into  his 
hand.  His  fingers  grasped  the  coins  and  his  mind 
grasped  the  situation  simultaneously.  His  lips 
formed  the  word  "Wait,"  although  no  sound  is- 
sued therefrom. 

We  lingered  at  the  top  of  the  Horse-shoe  Stairs 
until  our  crowd  had  all  gone.  The  door  opened  a 
few  inches,  we  stepped  inside  and  were  given  a 
private  view  of  the  closed  apartments,  including 
the  rooms  which  are  associated  with  Napoleon's 
most  reckless  act,  the  imprisonment  of  Pope  Pius 
VII,  for  over  eighteen  months.  These  latter  are 
hung  with  tapestry.  The  couch  of  His  Holiness 
is  less  ornate  than  the  others  in  the  palace  and  is 
without  hangings  of  any  sort.  The  upholstery 
of  the  chairs  smacks  more  of  Napoleon  than  of 
the  Pope  for  it  is  embroidered  with  soldiers  of  the 
First  Empire  in  their  various  costumes. 

The  next  room  is  a  veritable  curiosity,  for 
Louis  Philippe,  that  devotee  of  the  soup  tureen, 


The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau  313 

has  decorated  its  walls  with  plates  of  all  sorts. 
Some  of  these  are  ornamented  with  American 
scenes.  One  hundred  and  twenty-eight  plates 
were  used  in  carrying  out  the  royal  whim,  and 
the  effect  would  warm  the  heart  of  a  restau- 
rateur. 

Fontainebleau  is  the  most  complete  and  inter- 
esting palace  I  have  ever  seen.  It  links  three 
great  rulers,  Francis  I,  Henry  IV  and  Napoleon. 
Its  furnishings  have  been  marvelously  preserved 
from  the  violence  which  has  rocked  France  so 
tremendously  in  the  past  century  and  a  quarter 
and  which  centered  in  Paris  and  its  environs. 
The  Tuileries  and  St.  Cloud  fell  but  Revolution- 
ists, Communists  and  Prussians  all  passed  over 
Fontainebleau  and  left  intact  within  it  perfect 
pictures  of  the  reigns  which  have  held  court 
within  its  walls. 

It  shows  the  handiwork  of  that  great  builder, 
Francis  I,  although  not  at  his  best,  but  more  en- 
grossing than  that  is  the  nearness  to  which  it 
brings  Napoleon,  whose  development  and  down- 
fall it  witnessed. 

If  you  cannot  visit  both  Fontainebleau  and 
Versailles,  choose  the  former  by  all  means.  Ver- 
sailles is  a  tomb.     Fontainebleau  lives. 

The  Chinese  Museum  standing  beside  the  pal- 
ace is  worthy  of  a  longer  visit  than  we  gave  it. 


314  Three  Weeks  in  France 

It  is  more  Siamese  than  Chinese.  Its  exhibits 
are  fascinating  and  unique.  They  will  repay  a 
long  and  careful  study. 

You  will  hardly  leave  the  park  without  paying 
homage  to  the  carp  in  the  lake.  The  books  do  not 
say  whether  or  not  they  are  German  carp,  but 
if  they  are  the  French  have  taken  them  to  their 
hearts.  No  one  comes  to  the  border  of  the 
lake  without  buying  a  few  sous'  worth  of  bread 
to  throw  to  them,  enjoying  the  mad  struggle  of 
the  already  overfed  fish  to  capture  the  last 
morsel. 

We  returned  to  the  hotel  dining  room  now 
filled  with  holiday  seekers,  the  majority  having 
come  from  Paris.  Nothing  was  allowed  to  inter- 
fere with  our  comfort  and  we  climbed  into  the 
bus  for  the  Paris  train,  amidst  the  hearty  fare- 
wells of  a  small  retinue  of  servants.  Our  train 
was  as  usual  very  long,  having  sixteen  coaches 
and  one  baggage  car.  It  moved  slowly  through 
miles  of  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  and  in  a 
few  minutes  whistled  for  Paris. 

We  closed  our  note  book  with  a  sigh.  France, 
linked  to  us  by  the  strongest  of  ties,  political 
and  historical,  had  more  than  realized  our  dream 
of  her  great  natural  attractions. 

Equipped  as  she  is  with  excellent  railroads, 
comfortable  hotels,  magnificent  scenery  and  cen- 


The  Palace  of  Fontainebleau  315 

ters  of  historical  interest,  she  is  a  model  host 
that  all  the  world  might  copy  to  great  advantage 
and  profit.  Whatever  is  worth  doing,  is,  to 
France,  worth  doing  well.  The  entertainment 
of  travelers  is  worth  doing.  Therefore  she  does 
it  well.  She  has  brought  to  bear  on  the  subject 
her  intense  attention  to  details  and  the  result  is 
an  almost  perfect  system  of  caring  for  the 
stranger  within  her  gates. 


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